


O Fury's Gift

by diligent_cranberry



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Romance, Class Differences, Established Relationship, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Ishgard Politics (Final Fantasy XIV), Lost Love, Midlander Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Mystery, Patch 5.4: Futures Rewritten Spoilers, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Secret Relationship, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28651740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diligent_cranberry/pseuds/diligent_cranberry
Summary: "Equal under Her ever watchful gaze."So speaks the Enchiridion, but Ishgard is still a city steeped in stifling tradition. Every child is a gift from Halone, though some are more welcome than others.(Tags may be updated as the story progresses)
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Past Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light - Relationship
Comments: 20
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this contains spoilers for Patch 5.4! Proceed with caution. It also assumes that at least a few months have passed between 5.3 and the story's setting. 
> 
> Please also note that this work deals with themes of racism within a fantasy setting.

It had been decided that Limsa Lominsa was to be the backdrop of this particular meeting, for reasons including the fact that Ishgard was currently battling a spate of fierce blizzards, Ul'dah was baking in its own summer heat, and the Twelveswood Officials had muttered something about disturbing the Elementals should the three other leaders come traipsing in.

Nonetheless, a window in Chief Admiral Merlwyb's office had been thrown open, the scent of salt and seaweed drifting through, as well as the shouts from the decks below. In front of her desk now stood a stout wooden table and several chairs. Merlwyb sat at the head of it, crowned by the setting sun and by the glow of the candles. To her right was the Flame General, Raubahn Aldynn, looking uncomfortably stiff and cold in his gladiatorial attire, despite the balmy weather. To her left was Kan-E-Senna, the Elder Seedseer, her gaze drifting serenely around the room.

"Shall I close the window?" Aymeric heard Merlwyb ask, her mouth twitching into a smile. 

Raubahn shook his head. "No. I've long since realised it is folly to rebel against Llymlaen and Her whims." 

"A wise choice, Flame General." Three heads turned curiously towards him as he bowed at the doorway, closing the door behind him. 

"Welcome, Lord Speaker," said Merlwyb. "I trust the journey has not been too arduous?"

Insisting that it had not been, Aymeric took the seat to the right of the Elder Seedseer, who nodded softly, her mind clearly elsewhere. On the table were several large flagons of orange juice sitting in ice, next to a large basket of oranges, as if to hammer home the point that it was high season for La Noscea's most famous fruit. 

"I hope the sea air is more genial to yourself?" Asked Merlwyb, producing a bottle and pouring out several glasses of wine. "We seem to be having a glut of unseasonably warm weather." 

"It is indeed, Admiral. It has been far too long since I've visited Limsa Lominsa and it's wonderful climate." He was sweltering. "Am I the last to arrive?"

Merlwyb shook her head. "No, we still await our most important guest. However, given the circumstances I am inclined to begin now, lest what we say be misconstrued."

Aymeric arranged his face into something like polite curiosity. 

"No doubt this has all come as a great shock, though perhaps not a great surprise. The Warrior of Light is, I suppose, of _that age._ Congratulations are of course in order. The Maelstrom will grant her full leave while she is unable to complete active duty, and allow her administrative duties after that, if she so pleases."

"It was - indeed - a surprise," said Aymeric. "However, we should all know by now that our friend is full of them."

"Precisely. And as we are among friends," continued Merlwyb lightly, "I hope the same question that has been plaguing my mind has also been burrowing its way into yours."

There was a silence at the table, and Raubahn looked down at his mighty, scarred arms. The Elder Seedseer was impassive, her face as plain and pale as newly-washed walls. The seconds stretched on, until finally, _finally,_ Aymeric cleared his throat. 

"Doubtless your curiosity is well-founded, Lady Admiral, however I must refrain from speculation when our dear friend is separated from us by only thin stone walls. I have full confidence that she will reveal all in time. Permit me to say that the most important thing is that the Warrior of Light is well cared for during this time, regardless of who's child she is carrying -"

Merlwyb sighed, just loud enough for Aymeric to realise it was edged in contempt. "Doubtless that is how things work in Ishgard, where such occurrences are brushed under the proverbial rug. Believe me when I say I care very little about who the Warrior of Light associates with and any consequences that may occur from her dalliances. There is no need to skitter around the subject. I manage a city of pirates and whores."

Aymeric nodded politely, struggling to remember what his tutor always told him during negotiations; imagine a thick white smoke enveloping your partner, sucking out any malice from their words.

"- what I _am_ concerned about is that, once this becomes common knowledge, it makes the Warrior a target. And therefore, whoever is sheltering her, and whoever else has been, shall we say, _involved_ in the process. I am not so proud to admit that I hoped the father would offer alternative accommodation, though perhaps my hopes were misplaced. Though Limsa Lominsa welcomes her and wishes her the very best, we are keen to avoid making our current situation with the Garleans even more precarious, should they become aware of the Warrior of Light's present vulnerability." 

Aymeric nodded again, keen to keep his face light, open and attentive.

"It would be for the Warrior of Light to decide," intoned the Elder Seedseer gently, only the slight crease beneath her eyes indicating that she was present in the conversation, that her mind was not wandering amongst the trees. Aymeric bit his tongue; that was unkind of him.

"We cannot force her to stay somewhere she does not wish to," Kan-E-Senna continued serenely. "Such things lead to resentment, the desperate pleas of a cornered beast. The Elementals whisper that this is a momentous occasion, that the child will bring great fortune and prosperity to the land - "

"Which is exactly why we need to be careful," said Merlwyb. "If you are reading the signs already, doubtless others are too. I'm surprised the Ishgardian astrologians haven't announced something already. Actually," she added, before Aymeric could respond. "Who _does_ know?" 

"I imagine the Scions are already aware," replied Aymeric. "I can imagine that those closest - the Leveilleur twins, Y'shtola, Urianger, Thancred - would have difficulty _not_ noticing. Perhaps the other members are aware, though I doubt it's travelled very much beyond the core group. Lady Highbridge survived both of her parents, and has no other blood relatives, to my knowledge. Furthermore, from the tone of her letter, it appears she was not attempting to hide her condition behind glamour or otherwise conceal herself. I presume you all received the letter at a similar time?" He brandished his own, neatly folded.

"Aye," said Raubahn. "I told the Sultana - in private, away from the servants, though trying to keep a secret in Ul'dah is like trying to bottle smoke. Between us four - she's thrilled. Put in an order for what feels like a whole shipment of baby's clothes from the tailors."

There was a slightly shocked silence. 

"That," said Merlwyb slowly, "is wont to bring attention, surely?"

"Her Grace is known to make the occasional large donation to orphanages and to other unfortunates," shrugged Raubahn. "As long as they aren't monogrammed with the Warrior's name, I can't see it being an issue."

"That is a most generous gift from the Sultana, Flame General," said Aymeric, allowing a sliver of warmth to coat his words. "I am sure that the Warrior of Light will be most grateful, once she is informed." 

Kan-E-Senna gave a gentle nod. "Indeed. I have told precisely no-one, however I cannot control whom the Elementals deem fit to share such knowledge with. If another Padjal is aware, they have not yet informed me." 

"Excellent," said Merlwyb crisply. "I haven't told a soul, either. Thought it would be fair to the Warrior to get the first shot in. I believe Slafyrsyn's under the impression that we're planning her a surprise birthday party." 

Aymeric felt himself smile; Lady Highbridge would rather walk into the sea rather than have a party sprung upon herself. 

"I might add," he said, "that for the last few months, the Warrior of Light has been assisting in the restoration works in Ishgard, under the care of House Fortemps."

"I did notice the House Crest on my letter," admitted Merlwyb. 

"Precisely. As she is a long-term Ward of the House and, for all intents and purposes, is considered a member of said House, it would be prudent to believe that there is at least _some_ knowledge of it there, even if it is unspoken. It may be that the Warrior of Light wishes to stay there, when the time comes. If so, Ishgard would be honoured to host her, if that is what she chooses. Her work with the restoration has been unparalleled. It is the least we can do." 

"That's certainly a weight off of _my_ shoulders," said Merlwyb. "I must ask, though, are you certain that the rather unique circumstances wouldn't prove difficult? Forgive me, but Ishgard is not known for its tolerance of bastards." 

"The child may not be a bastard," said Kan-E-Senna delicately. "The Warrior of Light keeps her own counsel. If she has chosen to marry and, for her husband's safety, has not deemed to reveal his name, then we can scarcely chastise her. It is an excellent plan. Too often those that wish to harm us do so by proxy." 

"Indeed," said Aymeric. "We cannot begrudge her for wanting to keep those close to her safe. Allow me to say, Admiral, that the old days of Ishgard are in their twilight years. Whilst there may be older members of the High Houses that may turn up their noses, I very much doubt they'd mock the Saviour of Ishgard directly to her face."

Merlwyb sipped her wine. "Oh, I'm not bothered about _that._ The Warrior can stomach any bile thrown her way, by Lords and vagabonds both. What concerns me is politics. I don't claim to know the ins and outs of Ishgardian politics -"

 _You're certainly demonstrating otherwise_ , thought Aymeric, though his face remained still. 

"- but you must understand that there would be some consternation if the child was - shall we say - _unusual_ in some way."

Raubahn sat back in his chair, his brow furrowed. Aymeric knew exactly what Merlwyb was getting at, but he would not help her get there. Exactly how good were the Maelstrom's spies? Had they ears to the ground as far as Ishgard? They would be foolish not to; Ishgard certainly had spies as far as East Aldenard. No. Limsa was not the place for political dances. If she had some secret knowledge, he trusted that the Admiral would speak plainly. Yet there was something shrewd about her eyes as they lingered on the three other leaders.

"Ishgard has been dragged kicking and screaming into the Seventh Astral Era, with no small thanks to the efforts of the Lord Speaker," said Raubahn after a moment. "I can't think that a single child - unusual or otherwise - would disrupt things too greatly. If the rumours are true, and there are already _dragons_ assisting in the restoration, then I think anything short of the child emerging with multiple arms will be met with celebration, or at least old-fashioned, grudging tolerance." 

"Indeed, Flame General," Aymeric inclined his head. "Though she is considered part of our city, the Warrior of Light is not Ishgardian, and is therefore not bound by the fripperies of what some Lords might describe as _proper behaviour_. I will personally ensure that any malicious behaviour towards the Warrior is dealt with."

"That is most commendable, but you cannot stop people from talking. And talk they will." Merlwyb took another sip. 

"We may have to agree to let them, Lady Admiral. I imagine that the truth, whatever it may be, would be so mundane compared to whatever salacious gossip has been thrown around, that they'll become quite disappointed if it was ever revealed. Let the chattering classes talk, if it pleases them. With respect, I might also add that I am no stranger to people discussing my parentage within my earshot. Yet, here I am. It certainly did me no lasting harm."

The last part was a lie, and he knew it. It seemed to have the desired effect, however; Merlwyb was nodding slowly and the Elder Seedseer seemed to come out of her reverie.

"I do wonder," she said quietly, the candlelight dancing on her pale robes, "if I am being overly cautious. This is surely a cause of great celebration, however I share the Admiral's concern regarding our enemies. If - when - this becomes known across the land, I fear that the Beast Tribes in particular will take it upon themselves to summon their Primals if they feel they cannot be stopped." 

"I appreciate your concern, however the last week has offered us a glimmer of hope," said Merlwyb. "Alisaie Leveilleur, one of the Scion twins, has made great strides in her attempts to reverse the tempering process. I was lucky enough to hear a first-hand account of how she reversed the Tempering effects on some kobolds. It is in its early stages, and perhaps cannot work on a mass scale, but we are much more prepared than before should Primals be summoned." 

"That's wonderful news, Admiral," said Aymeric, feigning surprise. "The Scions never fail in their duty to Eorzea, even after their adventures in the First." 

Kan-E-Senna brought a hand to her chest. "I cannot help but be concerned with how this would affect the aetheric balance within the Twelveswood, should it be used upon the Sylphs. Yet, I will allow myself some respite. This is most auspicious."

"I'd hardly dare it to be true," said Raubahn. "So I will save any declarations until I see it with my own eyes. Either way, as long as the Warrior of Light keeps a low profile in the city of her choice - or no city - I propose all we need to do is wait, and battle any questions when the time comes. Business as usual, I propose. The last thing we want is any malicious forces jumping to conclusions."

There was another stretch of silence, broken only by the clinking of glasses against the table.

"The Warrior of Light must be conflicted," said Kan-E-Senna eventually. "She is as concerned with the fate of Eorzea as much as any Scion, and is deeply intertwined with its future. Having to balance this against her love for her child will be harrowing." 

"The Warrior of Light is nothing if not pragmatic," said Aymeric. "We can all attest to that. It is not impossible for one to serve Eorzea in addition to one's offspring, otherwise our barracks and outposts would fail to be repopulated within the new year. She is young, yes, but she has also slayed Primals, voidsent, Ascians, Eikons and Fury knows what else." He paused, feeling a spasm of emotion cross his face. "She is incredibly accomplished. I have full faith that she will rise to this challenge as dutifully as any." 

Furious with himself, he concentrated hard on burying the three leaders in layers and layers of white smoke in his mind's eye. The Elder Seedseer was gazing into the wall, deep in thought. Merlwyb, too, though her eyes were fixed on the edge of her glass.

Raubahn, however, did something entirely unexpected, and actually leaned forward and patted Aymeric's shoulder with a large, calloused hand. 

"None of us are doubting her, Lord Speaker. Merely, we've all seen what crossed loyalties can do."

"Indeed we have," Merlwyb folded her arms. "I had to destroy my own kin when their hubris threatened the people of Limsa Lominsa. It was - to put it mildly - deeply unpleasant. No doubt that the Warrior of Light's loyalty to Eorzea will result in decisions that will be, in time, correspondingly greater." 

Something reared within Aymeric's chest, but he pushed it down with all his might. How dare they speak to him as if he was a stranger to crossed loyalties - as if he were a green-eared adventure fresh from the Shroud. As if he had not lost - _everything_ \- and then watched what little remained threatened to be ripped from him once again. As if he had not watched his own father turn against him and his people. As if he had not seen countless friends die before his eyes, in cruel, pointless, disgusting ways. And even this - everything that he had seen - paled in comparison to what had befallen the Warrior of Light. Pulled in every direction, threatened by beings that could put even the Fury to shame, lost countless friends, and brought the destruction of not one, but two, worlds to a halt. Accused, harangued, harassed, until, conveniently, her accusers and haranguers and harassers decided she was useful after all, and begged for her help. And she acquiesced. Every single time. And now she was to be pulled again, this time from herself, this time from something that she could not fight nor fend off. 

Raubahn's voice sounded from a long way off. 

"- took me a long while to start thinking of me and Pipin as a team rather than me being in charge. Didn't stop me doing my duty to Ul'dah and Her Grace. I mean," he took a long draught of wine. "I won't pretend I know what a mother's mind is like, especially once the child's born. For Pipin and I - it was different - he was already a grown boy. But for a while I felt torn; before every battle I'd hesitate, because it was no longer just myself and Her Grace that I had to survive for. It was him, too. So there was that. Of course, Pipin turned out to be almost as stubborn and battle-hungry as I. It made me feel a little better - at least I know exactly what he's up against, and he understands that when I enter battle it could be my last. I don't doubt that will be on the Warrior's mind. We need to begin making plans for if, or when, she cannot join us in battle."

"I imagine that, as an ardent fighter yourself, it must warm your heart to see Pipin walk the same path," said Aymeric stiffly, feeling his anger begin to cool.

"Course it does. Without getting too bleary-eyed, the lad's made me proud a hundred times over. But then, it wouldn't matter if he turned around tomorrow and decided to join the Botanist's guild, so long as he was happy. I imagine the Warrior of Light feels the same."

"There will be great change," said Kan-E-Senna softly. "Regardless of the path the child walks."

"It changes everything," sighed Merlwyb, the merest hint of a grin at her mouth.

Yes, thought Aymeric, flashing a perfunctory smile at the Admiral, it certainly would. The Warrior of Light would need the utmost care and attention, and Ishgard - and House Fortemps - would be honoured to provide it. Quite what they could offer in protection to a literal Eikon-slayer, he couldn't answer. Like the other three, there was a knot at his stomach at the thought of the Warrior being unable to perform her duties, but he ignored it, disgusted at himself. It had been three years since the end of the Dragonsong War, a year since the quelling of the Garleans, who remained only in pockets, chipping away at La Noscea's walls. The Beast Tribes' attempts at summoning grew weaker and weaker, starved as the land was of aether and crystals. And if young Alisaie's attempts at reversing the Tempering process rang true, then there was at least a clear path to respite for the hundreds of souls brought under the Primals' sway. They would manage without her - she at least deserved that. 

With a knock, the Warrior - Romilda - _Milda -_ entered, in her usual haubergeon, her usual lance slung across her back, her usual grin, and her usual apologies for impinging on their time. Only the slight loosening of her armour betrayed anything amiss. Perhaps Aymeric was imagining it, but her face did look fuller, even in the yellowing light of the candles.

As he began a well-rehearsed speech detailing the whole of his, House Borel's, and House Fortemps’ heartfelt congratulations, he could not help feeling a strange mixture of pride and sorrow bloom in his chest, washing away the remains of his anger like a hot bath. Her hands, removed of her gauntlets, accepted the orange juice greedily, and then, almost imperceptibly, hovered at the juncture between her ribcage and stomach, which was swelling with whatever aetheric magic Halone had willed into being, busily constructing another life.

His child's life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone that has left kudos! This is my first attempt at fanfiction so it's very welcome!

"That speech," said a voice sleepily, "was hilarious." 

Aymeric jolted awake, panic flooding him until he realised they were safe - in his quarters, the door bolted, the heavy curtains drawn. 

"I can't believe I wasn't sick there and then, it was so... _saccharine_." Romilda was curled up on the opposite end of the settee, a thick blanket thrown around her. The blizzard rattled the shutters relentlessly, causing the candles to stutter in their holders. They had decided to slip away from the Lominsan meeting via Aetheryte, under the cover of needing to escort a waiting troop of knights and craftsmen around the lower reaches of the Firmament, before it became unrecognisable under all the snow.

In truth, they had both travelled to the Firmament, where Milda had stayed with a mug of warm soup against the chill. Aymeric had doubled back to the Congregation and ensured that the guards knew to expect the Saviour of Ishgard shortly. The door to his office was left open and, once Milda arrived, any nosy onlookers would encounter nothing more than a spirited chat between good friends. Due to the blizzard, Milda then requested that the guest's room be made up for herself, being careful that as many servants as possible saw this occurring, and locked herself in. Aymeric then worked until an unseemly hour so that returning to Borel manor was impossible, and retired to his own quarters upstairs. By sheer luck or divine providence, the best guest's room and the Lord Speaker's quarters were located next to one another. 

This formula had continued, without change, for the past four years. 

They themselves had both changed - her perhaps less so than him, despite the current circumstances. Her dark eyes still crinkled against the glare of the snow, exactly as they had done when they had first met. Her cheeks still flushed like dry wine against the cold. And her hair, still plaited back loosely, a few curling tendrils left out, framing her face. Red hair was uncommon in Ishgard, which had only added to his fascination as she had sat defiantly across the table in that chilly room in Camp Dragonhead. He had cursed himself, convinced that the Fury had introduced this beguiling thing to him at the most inopportune moment to test his resolve. And he'd failed, miserably. 

"I assure you, it could have gone much worse. I left out at least a few more references to 'bourgeoning,' 'blooming' and 'new beginnings.'" 

She pulled a face, and he nudged her playfully with his foot. Fury or not, he had come to love her more completely and irrevocably than he'd ever dared possible. 

"If I could," said Milda, "I'd have leapt from the window when you mentioned the word _fecundity_ , I was so embarrassed. Unfortunately I can't even think about jumping for the next few months."

She shifted in her seat, pulling the blanket closer. 

"I've been officially advised by the chirurgeon," she continued grumpily, "that I'm not to do any overexerting jumps. It's gentle training only. Or swimming. But it's too cold. I'll have to practise my lancework in the bath."

"You could always stay in La Noscea for a while," suggested Aymeric. "I imagine the water is more of a fitting temperature." 

"And run the risk of jellyfish, sharks and leering pirates? I'd rather risk frostbite on the arse and take a dip in the Highlands." She shook her head. "Sorry, I'm being...what did Alphinaud call it… _sharp_. I was completely fine up until I visited the chirurgeon. Now they've given me a hundred things to worry about rather than 'avoid wine and airships.'"

"Perhaps," said Aymeric, "it is time to take up some hobbies that _don't_ involve any physical exertion. Or any hobby, really."

Milda snorted. "I have hobbies."

"Oh?"

"I've been known to dabble in armoursmithing."

"Only so you could make your own. I recall that the Dragoon armour let in a bit of a draft." 

"I've tried blacksmithing."

"That was so you could repair it when the above changes went south." 

"Untrue. I made a candlestick once, remember?"

Yes, who could forget that Starlight, when everyone from the Scions to himself to Edmont de Fortemps had received a wonky candlestick, courtesy of the Warrior of Light. 

"I should have signed them," she thought aloud. "I imagine they'd sell for a bit."

"Just be sure not to inform your Lalafellin friend - I fear she'd have you on a production line before long, filling the Scion's coffers."

"She already tried to get Urianger to sign and sell his arcana," giggled Milda. "I've never actually seen him speechless, but he was fairly close. Maybe I should take up clothcraft. It's so _boring,_ though. I'd want to be outdoors. Perhaps I could sew a load of swaddling cloth sitting out on the ramparts." 

"There's no need for that. We can arrange a stay in the Forelands if you prefer, and you can sew to your heart's content, out of the snow. However, that's only if you're _really_ intent on learning clothcraft, as the Sultana has already seen that the child will be impeccably dressed." 

Milda shook her head. "Aymeric, we _can't_ accept that. I was too shy to tell Raubahn that there was no need." 

"It's not like you to by shy. In my experience, people simply cannot help themselves from making and offering baby's clothes. Brace yourself for the inevitable cascade of clothes from Lords and Ladies as they fight for the honour of seeing the Warrior of Light's baby in their handmade tunic." 

"If that's the case, I'm dressing it in a sack, to annoy everyone." Milda pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Though of completely normal height for a Hyur, against the settee and the rest of the furniture, which were scaled up for the average Elezen, she was dwarfed by it. 

The last embers of the fire were glowing, the room's final defense against the chill from the windows. Milda shuffled closer, until her head rested against Aymeric's chest. For what felt like the first time in days, his heartbeat began to slow. He felt as if he needed to speak, to reassure, but Milda, as she so often did, preempted this, threading her fingers with his and letting them rest on the small of her stomach.

"You're worrying. I won't tell you not to, because you won't listen." She sighed, and Aymeric felt a wave of guilt wash over him. 

"I worry about you," he said quietly. "And what others will say."

"They already say things now, my love. _'The Speaker and the Warrior of Light are unusually close_ .' Only last week someone asked whether I'd be Godsmother to _your_ child, one day."

"Then they must at least suspect." 

"Let them!" Milda's hair bristled in the firelight. "Let them suspect! Gods know if it wasn't us, it'd be some other poor souls getting their private lives dissected. I was terrified before, but now - honestly, the things that go on in the Pillars! The Warrior of Light's pregnancy was probably the _most_ scandalous thing for about an hour, until something new came along." 

"Milda, I cannot pretend it won't be difficult. I shan't bore you, but as an example there are a thousand irritating bits of legislature surrounding inheritance and titles and other nonsense, if the child is a Halfling -"

"And yet," said Milda stubbornly, "That wouldn't matter one jot if you weren't who you are." 

"Well, I amrather important." This earned him a nudge on the arm and a laugh. "Though not _quite_ as much as you."

"Now you're talking like a Highborn," teased Milda. "If it was up to me, I would kiss you on dragonback, in front of the Cathedral, in my underwear. _Really_ hammer home the point. Unfortunately that's political suicide, which is a shame because it'd be damn funny."

"I'm sorry," said Aymeric gently, after a moment. 

"I can't believe what's worrying you is a bit of ancient law that nobody except the Scholasticate is remotely interested in," said Milda. "Without blowing my own trumpet, you think they'd be happy that the Warrior of Light is choosing to stay here, choosing to entwine her fate with that of Ishgard." 

She turned to face him, her hands at his collarbone. 

"They can't pretend that Ishgard is the same as it once was, forever.Neither can we. If bloody _dragons_ can help rebuild the city, then you and I can have a child in peace."

"We can. And we should." Aymeric stopped, unable to quite put into words the sinking feeling in his chest. Under him, Ishgard was supposed to be different. And yet here he was. Another Lord with a bastard on the way. He would have married Milda a hundred times over if he wasn't so cowardly. If everything had been different. If the Warrior of Light was not watched so closely by her enemies, eager to strike at Ishgard if it meant getting to her. If he hadn't cared so much about the sniping of the High Houses, and the pontificating of the Scholasticate. If Alphinaud hadn't told Milda that starting a relationship with him, Aymeric, would jeopardise the Scion's neutrality. If he hadn't strived so hard to differentiate the Ishgard of today from that of his father that he had built himself into a corner, trying in vain to appease both the reformists and the traditionalists. If he hadn't spent year after year waiting for the opportune moment to announce his intentions. It had never come, and now it was too late.

"If it's all right with you," said Milda softly, after a long period of silence. "I would stay here tonight. My room'll be freezing, and I'm certain I heard some very curious servants hovering in the hallway." 

"Of course."

"By the way," she said, exhaustion curling the edges of her words. "I'm not moving. You'll have to carry me back to bed, and woe betide you if you wake the Warrior of Light before she's ready." 

He smiled, planting a kiss on her crown. She smelled of the outdoors, of wood fire and ash and something sweet. He had an inkling of what he would do tomorrow, and let his mind construct exactly who he would speak to, who he would perhaps summon to the Congregation. The lack of a common enemy had led a portion of the populace to turn inward, blaming what was once the fault of Dravanians on each other. Yet - if there was something once more that could unite Ishgardians…

Aymeric stared into the dying fire, his fingers nestled through Milda's hair as her breathing slowed, wishing that sleep would take him even half as easily. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May be slightly more delayed for a while as I, like Milda, am currently grinding for the Restoration D:

" _Oi, you! Grab it tighter, it'll go flying in a minute!_ " 

The recruit, in awe of being addressed by the Warrior of Light herself, wheeled around, just in time for the lance to go sailing from his hands and land several ilms from his superior's nose. 

Biting back a laugh, Milda took a swig of her flask of warm ginger tea. The bone-deep nausea that had plagued her for so long was finally beginning to subside, but had been replaced by an insatiable hunger when she wasn't eating, and an aversion to almost everything when she was. Right now, she was craving something sweet, something she had once tasted in the Crystarium's kitchens, a kind of whipped, frothy syllabub. Perhaps she'd ask G'raha if he knew the recipe. 

It was particularly cold today, even in the training pit. The abundance of salt spread on the ground to starve off the ice was so thick she could almost taste it. 

"Nice work, Private, watch how his left hand balances the end of the lance before he strikes..."

As far as training exercises go, it was progressing fairly smoothly. The Maelstrom had sent a troop of young recruits to train in lancework with Ishgard's dragoons, and they were applying their new found skills with gusto, though perhaps not any finesse. Milda couldn't help wondering that it would have been better to just shove them in the Lancer's guild in Gridania for a few weeks. The dragoons, clearly bored, were only half-heartedly humouring the Storm Privates. Perhaps that was a good thing; they'd already had one broken nose this morning. The recruit had brought the end of the lance crashing into his face, resulting in Milda dragging over a couple of loitering maids to help escort him to the infirmary. It made her remember all the times _she_ had backhanded herself when she'd started her training, and the sighs and words of encouragement from her old guildmaster, Ywain. She should write to him soon, she decided. It really had been too long. And Alberic. Perhaps she could visit the Observatorium and pay him a visit (wearing her largest and most heavily-padded armour).

Although… Milda squinted up at the opposite rampart. Throughout the haze of breath and steam, and salt kicked up from the activity, she could have sworn she saw something gleaming. Something dark, and very familiar. She blinked. There it was again, the candlelight flickering against it, if only it wasn't so bloody dark in here…

"Lady Highbridge?" 

Romilda jumped. Behind her was a sheepish-looking Knight, and behind _him_ was Hilda Ware, wearing a snow-covered cloak and a look of triumph.

"Miss Ware was very insistent she see you _urgently,_ Lady Highbridge." 

"The pleasure is all mine. How goes things, Hilda?" 

"Good to see you, too, Warrior of Light," Hilda's grin widened, and she nodded at the recruits, a few of whom had stopped their practising to stare curiously. The Knight who had brought her in cleared his throat pointedly, bowed, and departed. "All's fine with me, can't complain. I hear you may be stuck here a while?"

"It's only a blizzard," said Milda. "It'll blow itself out soon." 

"I'll say. Feel like I've forgotten what my toes look like without chilblains. What's that smell? Is that ginger tea?" 

"Would you like some?"

"Not right now, it's only good if you're sick as a dog." She slipped nearer, so that only Milda could hear her. "Congratulations!"

Milda's heartbeat quickened, but, feeling like it would be no use arguing given the tilt of her armour, gave a small smile and a nod. 

"Don't worry, it's not that noticeable. And I _am_ being especially nosy, as it's my job to know what's happening around the Brume. I had to know if the rumours were true." 

"There are _rumours,_ now?" Said Milda irritably. "I thought I'd been discrete. I'll kill that chirurgeon."

"These things have a way of rising to the top," grinned Hilda. "I won't tell a soul, I promise. Well, unless they happen to know as well…" she trailed off, her brow knitted. "Anyroad, you _are_ looking to stay close to Ishgard for the time being, aren't you?" 

"Oh, I think so. Despite the lovely weather, it's basically home, now. I couldn't bear to be anywhere else." 

"Staying close to your darling?" Said Hilda with a wink. 

Romilda felt the ground shift as though she'd missed several steps. Bitter bile rose in her throat.

"The Firmament," continued Hilda. "It's your first baby, I suppose. You never leave." 

_Thank the Twelve._ "Oh - oh, _yes,_ of course. I must see how it ends, and continue to help out where I can. Sadly, I can no longer accompany the miners on their airships for obvious reasons."

"You could always join the culinarians, they're up all hours supplying the craftsmen. You can't move for honeyed buns in there."

"Goodness, you've never tasted my cooking, have you?" Laughed Milda. "I'll burn every honeyed bun I see just by looking at it." 

"I'm sure the Lord Speaker could help you out, he's very good at making buns."

 _Give me strength._ Was she being deliberately aggravating? 

"I know a few ex-Knights who loved it when Ser Aymeric was on food duty," whispered Hilda confidentially. "He always added extra syrup in when nobody was looking."

"I'll be sure to ask for his assistance if needed," said Romilda with a very strained smile. "I imagine he's very busy." 

"My Lady -" the same Knight was back, this time offering a training lance. Hilda, understanding that her conversation was to be cut short, said her goodbyes, making her way down the freezing stone steps of the Proving Grounds. She, the Mongrel of Ishgard, turned and watched as Romilda twirled the lance in her hands, demonstrating an opening move against a target. The Lord Speaker was undoubtedly very busy. But not so busy that a neatly-folded invitation for a meeting had not made its way to her. The time already memorised, Hilda held it aloft over one of the braziers, watching the remnants flutter out, burning holes in the frost.

***

The snow was falling gently, as though to sheepishly apologise for its behaviour over the last few days. Aymeric was sat hunched over his desk, inspecting a proposal for a new roof for the Astrologicum. Or a new wife. The handwriting made it difficult to tell. He was so absorbed trying to work out a particularly excruciating jumble of letters that he barely noticed that a tray of tea and biscuits had appeared at his elbow. 

"Ser, there's an irate machinist at the entrance, saying something about being left waiting in the snow. The guards are insisting she shows her invitation, which she does not have." Lucia placed the tray on the desk, carefully avoiding the piles of parchment and stacks of tomes. "I promised her a warm welcome, hence these, fresh from the kitchens. She's waiting outside." 

"I'm not due to meet her for another hour," muttered Aymeric distractedly, glancing at the chronometer. His stomach sank. "By the Fury, she's right. It completely slipped my mind."

He brought out a fresh piece of parchment and hastily scribbled the day's date.

"My thanks for smoothing that over, Lucia. It's been a rather long day for both of us, hasn't it? Have you any pressing matters this evening?"

"None, Ser, apart from meeting this month's new recruits after this." 

"Excellent. After that, I insist you retire for the evening. You've been a great support this week, and for that I am grateful." 

"I'm only performing my duties, Ser," said Lucia, with a short bow. "But thank you. Allow me to see your guest in."

Lucia opened the door and gestured the figure inside, closing it behind her with a snap.

"Good evening, Lady Ware," Aymeric stood up. "My apologies, I hear that there was some confusion downstairs?" 

Hilda Ware looked windswept and freezing; she made a beeline for the pot of tea and wrapped her reddened fingers around it. "Only the usual, Lord Speaker. Your front guards insist on screening you so thoroughly I nearly got into a shouting match with one of them. We never used to need invites, surely?" 

"Unfortunately, it is a temporary measure due to the influx of demand following the restoration. Many Lords and Ladies have emerged from the woodwork, thinking that if the Brume is being rebuilt then so should their summer homes, stables and atriums. I am hoping to do away with it soon, it's brought my level of paperwork to heights that were previously unimaginable."

Hilda laughed, taking the plush seat in front of the desk. "So - how can I help you today, Ser? Anything amiss? Any issues with the Brume?"

"No, nothing at all like that, thankfully. It's actually something that - forgive me - is rather delicate, and involves some other parties that require the utmost discretion. However, you have my full promise that, whatever is said here, it will not leave this room." 

Hilda chewed on her biscuit in silence, her interest piqued.

"Doubtless you know that our lives have changed irrevocably since the end of the Dragonsong War, and that we now must decide for ourselves the direction our city will take in its new role as part of the Eorzean Alliance. Forget for a moment the distrust for the Dravanians or the confusion upon seeing a Lalafell or Hrothgar. How are relations currently between Ishgardians?"

"Between Ishgardians?" Hilda asked, her face set. "I can only really account for those I meet in the Brume. Naturally, the restoration has acted as a balm between citizens. Used to be that the War was the only thing keeping people together, but the new district's been keeping most people busy and their heads down. Now that we've enlisted the help of an ex-heretic (and he hasn't eaten anyone yet), once everyone got over their shock it's proved a great talking point. Highborns and Lowborns alike converging to discuss. Well, that and _other_ things, of course."

Aymeric raised his head from his notes, looking politely bemused. 

"You must have noticed, surely?" Said Hilda incredulously. "The Warrior of Light - she's with child. Everyone's talking about it." 

"Surely not _everyone,"_ smiled Aymeric, ignoring the gnaw at his chest. "In fact, you're the only person that's been bold enough to state it to me."

Hilda shook her head. "Everyone's trying to be polite, you see, in case it was, er, unintentional. She's not showing that much, but if you know, you _know._ Don't get me wrong - I'm very happy for her, I'm just very curious, is all."

"I'm sure we all are, however it does please me that something as simple as gossip brings both Low and High born together in friendship," said Aymeric. "If we may kindly return to the matter at hand - I take it that, as far as you can see, relations between Elezen and Hyur are slightly more genial than in the immediate aftermath of the Dragonsong War?"

"Well," she said slowly. "Elezen and Hyur get on well enough, I think. We're all Ishgardians, after all - and that means the fights happen along the lines of whether your mother can afford someone to do the laundry or not. I'd wager that a Hyur in the Pillars has more in common with the High Houses than an Elezen living in the Brume. Some Hyur from Gridania come in with a mistrust of Elezen politics and back-biting - understandable. Some Elezen think Hyurs are bawdy and unrefined - again, not without reason. 

Except -" she frowned, stopping herself. Aymeric looked up from his notes again. 

"Are you asking me whether us Halflings are well accepted?" 

"In a roundabout way, yes," said Aymeric. "However, I see from your face that you consider the question a ludicrous one." 

"Not necessarily ludicrous," Hilda reached for her second biscuit. "I suppose, Ser, that people react badly to those they don't consider fitting in either box. It all starts with how Elezen and Hyur see each other, though. Weird bit of tension there. Especially from some of the Highborns."

"Is that so?" 

"Aye. They think Hyurs are _easy._ Especially certain members of the Houses, pardon me for saying so. I know a lot has changed now. But it doesn't stop some Highborns seeing them as easy prey, with the results carefully pushed away into the slums. Why risk an accidental child with a Lord's daughter and risk getting your tackle lopped off, when the pantry maid is much prettier and much more malleable - and nobody will ever believe the child's his?" 

Aymeric's heart turned to ice. 

"That's why the whole city only barely tolerates us," said Hilda, an edge to her voice. "Doesn't matter if a Halfling is a child of two slum rats, they'll still be treated as a horror by a large chunk of the city. Our side are no different. The Brume sees a Halfling and thinks they'll use their presumed noble blood for a way out, think that they're better than the rest of us. Or, they assume some Brume wench has decided she's going to charm her way into some lordly breeches for a peaceful life. Both are wrong."

Aymeric's quill hovered over his page, though he did not speak. 

"I cannot imagine how difficult that must be," he said eventually. "Words scarce do it justice."

"Words won't change a damn thing," snorted Hilda. "Ishgard needs to get over itself - all of us. And it's not just us - most of Eorzea get a bit funny about who sleeps with who. Only problem is, to my knowledge it's only Hyur and Elezen that produce, well, me . The rest just take after the mother, apparently. Except Highlanders. Definitely got a bit of Hellsguard in 'em, I reckon. Why's this so important, anyway?"

Aymeric raised his eyebrows, slightly unnerved by her intense gaze. "Well, as a reformed state, Ishgard is keen to shed some of its more parochial mindsets. If we can improve the lives of the handful of Halflings that live here, and perhaps remove the more, well, prurient understandings that frame Hyur as some sort of forbidden fruit to a certain section of the Highborn - "

"Yes, Ser, but why _now_?" 

"As busy as I am, unfortunately even I do not have time to do everything at once. Now is as good a time as any, surely?" 

Hilda looked down in thought, and Aymeric almost breathed a sigh of relief until her eyes narrowed, and she glanced towards the door. 

"It's bolted, right?" 

"No," said Aymeric in surprise. "Merely closed. Why -?"

"Lord Speaker, there are two maids outside, trying to listen in." 

As if on cue, a furious scraping noise rang out, as well as the sound of footsteps padding down the hall. Aymeric cursed himself inwardly; perhaps he _should_ have kept Lucia back to guard the door.

"They've tailed me from the moment I stepped foot in the Congregation," sighed Hilda. "Probably belonging to some Lord or other hoping for information. I hope you don't mind your grand plan for social unity being discussed across the Pillars for the next few weeks?"

"I suppose it cannot be helped,” said Aymeric stiffly, devoutly thankful that the conversation hadn't steered the direction he'd been fearing. Hilda was rather too sharp for her own good. 

"Ser - your second in command - the tall one. Where is she?" 

And there it was.

"I've relieved her of her duties for the evening," said Aymeric steadily. "We all deserve an evening off." 

"Right. It's not because the true nature of this meeting is to do with a personal matter, and as an outstanding politician and Speaker, you endeavour to keep business and personal matters separate?" 

Aymeric felt his jaw clench; she had some nerve. Though, she was completely right. 

"That's the top and bottom of it, Lady Ware. I wanted as few people as possible to be privy to this meeting, though I must now admit that this was probably quite foolish."

Hilda shook her head. "Not foolish, just...I don't know. Look, every time a Highborn, or a politician, approaches us - oh, and they do - it's because something unfortunate has happened, either involving us or, more likely, resulting in us. And a fat lot ever happens. The liaison's broken off, or the kid's dumped in the Brume. Tale as old as anything. So what I'm saying is, Ser," she folded her arms. "I'm not messing around with the politics or the hand-wringing about being _discrete._ Is this about the Warrior of Light?" 

Aymeric threw her a long, clear, calculating look, wondering if he would be able to answer her question without explicitly lying. 

"I simply wish to ensure that the Warrior of Light is free from any harassment, should she decide to reside here permanently over the next few months."

Hilda furrowed her brow. "Well, if it was just that, I can't think why you're asking me. Mother of a Halfling or not, she's the Saviour of Ishgard! Unless she births a dragon then and there on the steps of St. Reymanaud's, they'll welcome anything. It's _not_ a dragon, is it?"

"I'm fairly certain it's not." 

"A shame. Would be a fantastic way to rile some people up. No, nobody would dare say anything to her. They'd save their bile for the poor Elezen father for being a little too wayward with his time and forgetting his standards." 

The imaginary clouds of smoke came into play again, as Hilda was fixing him with a look not unlike that of Merlwyb's several days prior. 

"This is why I'm here, right? Rather than a politician or someone actually able to get through to the nobility and warn them to keep their noses out. You know how much I respect you and all that you've done, Lord Speaker. But you Highborn - again, with respect - keep inventing new and more interesting ways to one-up each other. It doesn't _matter_ if the Warrior of Light has a Halfling. But it matters a lot to the poor soul that did it, especially if he's Ishgardian, and especially if he's - prominent."

Yes, thought Aymeric, ignoring the rising chill within him, it mattered a lot. He had been unable to articulate this to Romilda the other day, but something like this was enough to dent the precarious balance between Highborn and Lowborn, enough to unite the pockets of both sides that were angry enough at the mere existence of Halfbreeds. _Halflings_ , he reminded himself angrily. For some, it would bring into question what it meant to be Ishgardian - those who were yet unable to envisage a world where Dravanians and outsiders were as welcome within these walls as the most pedigree of Highborn. Years he had worked to stop the denizens of the Pillars and the Brume from being at each other's throats. For a good while these people had been unable to see each other as the same species, let alone citizens with a shared connection to this city. It was all so unbelievably tiresome. 

"Rest assured, Lady Ware, that we will endeavour to make things much easier for those that find themselves torn between two parties through no fault of their own." He felt his face settle into mask-like composure, annoyed at himself for settling on a vague, safe answer that would charm even the most belligerent of Highborns. "Ishgard is changing, and I am confident we can establish ourselves as members of the Eorzean Alliance without losing what it is to be a member of this great city." 

Hilda, being belligerent, though not a Highborn, raised her eyebrows at this obvious deflection. Aymeric wondered if she'd dare to ask the question that was so obviously burning on her tongue. He almost wanted her to. 

"I _knew_ it."

Perhaps not. 

"It's that strange Elezen - the Scion who speaks like a theatre production. Or the young twin with all the hair. He is _very_ young, though. I assume it happened when they all managed to get their bodies back?" 

Aymeric didn't know what he expected, but certainly not that. Though the mere thought of it was hilarious. He'd have to tell Milda. She would laugh, or cry. Realising that this mirth had flashed across his face, he cleared his throat. "Let us get back on track, please. It isn't dignified to sit and discuss the parentage of another's child, especially if the Warrior of Light has taken pains to keep her privacy…"

"Or it's Emmanellain de Fortemps, the sly old dog. I did wonder if he'd been getting ahead of himself now he's an emissary, galivanting about the place -"

"As fascinating as this is," said Aymeric steadily, keen to steer the conversation towards safer grounds, "it really isn't relevant. The Warrior of Light will have the full backing of Ishgard should she choose to stay. Meanwhile, this conversation had been most illuminating. The treatment of Halflings is, to my dismay, an area we have neglected, so keen were we to rebuild. I will admit that the task is daunting - and may take a long while - but I am committed to tearing down the current stigma surrounding them. There's no reason why they shouldn't live as full lives as the rest of us."

"If the child _is_ half-Elezen, it might go some way," mused Hilda. "Perhaps then they'd see that it's not really a word-ending event. It's not like we're very easy to make. We won't overrun the place."

That was the galling thing, thought Aymeric. For reasons unknown, it was rather difficult to produce Halflings of any combination. Perhaps that's why Hyurs were so often the suitors of choice for bored Highborns. Quite why Halone had decided to intervene otherwise on that particular night was a mystery. Perhaps to teach him a lesson. 

He thanked Hilda for her time, assuring her that, yes, of course she could take home the rest of the biscuits. 

"It must feel like herding couerls, Ser, having to keep tabs on all these indiscretions." 

"Well," said Aymeric, in a repressive voice. "I'm afraid it's the nature of things. Either way, I am confident that the Warrior of Light will rise to the occasion, whatever happens. And that what was discussed here will remain private." 

"Of course, Lord Speaker." Hilda's hand rested on the doorlatch. She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. "I hope this doesn't come across as too forward, but I think it's very noble of you to look out for the Warrior of Light like this. She's very lucky to have you there for her. I bet she's scared. I would be."

Aymeric felt heat flush his face, his mind racing back to Romilda standing in the doorway to his quarters, covered in snow, her hands clasped at her chest. How she'd cried, apologised, gasped for breath, terrified that she'd brought down everything Aymeric had worked for. She had not feared one ilm for herself, only that she'd brought embarrassment onto him, disrupted his precarious standing amongst the Lords. And how he'd held her, even though he felt himself breaking, a mixture of terror and numbing shock coursing through his veins like poison. It was not her fault, he'd told her. It was his. His fear for the delicate balance of the city should their relationship be revealed - any excuse for the permanently aggrieved sections of the city to declare that Ishgard had irrevocably lost its way - had meant they had snuck around, meeting in taverns, their faces covered, hunted in the Hinterlands, attended every tedious meeting they could together, walking along the frosted Pillar walls, his hand just brushing hers.

It would be fine, he'd told her as she had sobbed. It would be fine. It would. 

It had to be.

***

Hilda made her way out to Saint Valeroyant's Forum, feeling the night's chill against her jaw. The Lord Speaker was famously difficult to wheedle information out of, though she had not missed the emotion in his face as she had closed the door to his office. The father _had_ to be Ishgardian, and Elezen, most probably Highborn. The only issue that remained was narrowing it down. Wanting to mull over her thoughts in the warmth (and over some ale), she headed down into the Brume, for the poor man's entrance to the Forgotten Knight.

There was a group of slum kids loitering by the scaffolding, their hands huddled around a makeshift fire. She knew all of them by sight, apart from two figures, who were wrapped up in thick tartan wool. They both stiffened as she walked past, returning her nod with undue formality. One of them twitched their cloak closer, hiding a swirl of petticoats and neat leather shoes. Hilda stifled her smirk. She hadn't yet found the confirmation she was looking for, either from Ser Aymeric or the Warrior of Light herself. But then neither had these maids. Whoever they were working for - to have them sneak into the Congregation and then slum it in order to keep tabs on her - was clearly as desperate for the information as she was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! 
> 
> This chapter takes a slight detour, but rest assured that the main cast will return to focus in the next chapter :)

Leonie rolled the dagger between her hands, both concealed behind her thick cloak. It was only just dawn, the thin strip of pinkish light visible through the rotting wooden scaffolding. Her feet were freezing within her shoes, light leather as they were, and much more used to the mulched flooring and springy grass of Gridania. Here there was nothing but stone and frost and biting, chilling wind. Her three petticoats did nothing to stem the chill. She saw Estelle’s figure leaning against a wall in the usual place, her eyes narrowed in resignation. Guilt bubbled up from her stomach.

Leonie had been in Ishgard approximately one week, hanging about a tavern, before a gentleman in a richly-embroidered cloak had beckoned her forward. From behind his hood he'd noted that she clearly wasn't here for the wine, piss poor as it was. Piss poor or not, it had made her slightly looser with her tongue than she was used to; she confessed that she was on the run from the Wood Wailers for theft, and was looking for any work she could find whilst they lost her trail.

He had listened to her story, nodded sympathetically, and rolled a few pieces of gil towards her. 

"For me? You feel sorry for me?"

No, he'd said. He had a job for her, though the way he put emphasis on the word sent a prickle of fear down her spine. She ignored it. She'd done this before. 

As jobs go, it certainly was one of the strangest. Ishgardians, reclusive as they were, seemed to be bound by more unspoken conventions than written laws. She hardly even saw the gentleman after the initial meeting, and when she did his face remained concealed. She wasn't even going to be working at his house, but rather a smaller property in one of the nicer corners of Foundation. Leonie was introduced to Estelle, a tall, coltish Elezen who was every ilm a prim noble's maid - until she opened her mouth. 

"Don't be gettin' any ideas. First of all - ye ain't to know 'oo the boss is, and don't even try to work it out - that's 'is business. And ye best believe that I'll cut the nose off yer face if ye shit this up." 

Estelle hailed from Limsa Lominsa, city of pirates, or so Leonie had heard. Why had she left?

"I'll only say this the once. Once a noble, always a noble. Don't matter if 'e's head of a House or king of the bloody pirates. Rats through an' through. We'll be maids by day, spies by night. Reckon ye can handle that?"

She could. It was better than being thrown in a cell for taunting the Elementals. 

"Warrior of Light's in tow, an' the boss needs us to keep tabs on 'er. She's gonna be stayin' in Ishgard quite a while, if the rumours are true."

"Rumours?" 

"Aye. Not sayin' any more. Need to know if I can trust ye, first." 

Their first mission involved sneaking into the Congregation of the Knights Most Heavenly - not an easy task. It was, as far as Leonie could tell, where the action happened. The Warrior of Light had travelled from some sort of building site at twilight, before waltzing through the large wooden doors. 

Estelle had, apparently, planned for this. They were to take large wicker baskets full of laundry, and simply walk through, blizzard be damned.

"What?"

"Trust me. Nobody cares about a maid. Just don't say anythin.'"

Incredulously, it worked. When one of the two guards was occupied with a visiting noble, Estelle bowed at the other, her face softening. 

"Evenin,' Ser. We're to carry these into the guest quarters."

"New, are you?"

"O' course, Ser, that's why we're all of a flutter, 'aving not seen your 'andsome face before. Is there a servant entrance?"

"No, no," the guard, upon reflection, looked rather young and green. "Er, straight upstairs, take care not to talk to any of the guests." 

Estelle seemed to know where she was going; they hauled the heavy baskets up a set of winding stairs, left into a handsomely panelled corridor, which ended with a guarded door. Estelle and Leonie quickly darted behind a corner. 

"Those're the sleepin' quarters. Guest an,' if I ain't mistaken, Lord Speaker's quarters too." 

"How'd you know this?"

"Ain't my first time sneakin' in 'ere," muttered Estelle. "Though last time I 'ad to wear a fake moustache. Murder on my lips, it was. Now do exactly as I say…."

Leonie, sweating profusely despite the cold, wandered up to the guard and bowed. 

"Yes?" 

"I've been told that you're to swap duties, Ser. The young lad on the front gate says it's about time. And - and if you could kindly let us in to deposit the guest's laundry?"

The guard sighed, ruffling his moustache. "No. Wait until Ser Arcintoix arrives, then he will let you in." 

"Thank you, Ser." 

The Knight stumped past, and Estelle sprung out from behind the corner. She produced something from her sleeve and fiddled with the lock. It clicked open. 

The corridor in front of them was carpeted with thick rugs and was brightly lit. 

"Door on the opposite side leads right down to the kitchens, if ye don't mind scalin' the side o’ the keep in the snow. These doors are the one's we're after." She stopped in front of a handsome oak door, with a crimson and black crest hung on a chain. It looked oddly familiar. The door next to it was identical, except the crest was replaced with the Ishgardian banner.

Estelle pressed her ear gently against the oak.

"Aye. She's in there. Damn it all, I don't reckon we can get through. Would've been good if we could 'ave sat in a wardrobe. Never mind. We're stayin' 'ere, if anyone asks we're awaitin' some laundry. Sort through the basket, if ye must, but be convincin." 

And so they did. For hours it felt. Until - 

A tall Elezen in gleaming blue swept through the corridor, unlocked the bannered door, and went inside. 

"That's Ser Aymeric," said Estelle. "Lord Commander - or, well, Lord Speaker now I 'spose. Good egg, but...ye know. Highborn."

They waited longer, as the candles burned low in their braziers. 

Finally, a door clicked - the Warrior of Light's. Estelle and Leonie froze, halfway through folding a bedsheet. Leonie didn't dare look up. Footsteps paced around the corridor, a pause, and the same door clicked shut again. 

"Could feel 'er eyes right on my head," whispered Estelle. "She's waitin' for someone, though."

"She might suspect," breathed Leonie. "Shall we go?" 

"Aye. We'll go via the kitchens. Just act like ye belong 'ere, and don't look at the guards on the way out."

***

A few days later, Leonie found herself inside the Proving Grounds, huddled with Estelle under a large tartan cloak, mufflers pulled over the lower half of their faces. Whatever she'd done, Estelle must have considered her at least a little trustworthy, because she glanced around and beckoned Leonie closer.

"Basically," whispered Estelle. "Warrior o' Light is with child. Apparently. An' our job is to try an' find out who did it." 

"Really?" Leonie rolled her eyes. "And how're we to do that?"

"Tailin' her, o' course. She'll most likely go straight back to 'im." 

"Or stay away," said Leonie. "Especially if she doesn't want anyone to know." 

Estelle shook her head. "Accordin' to the boss that's very unlikely. She's too in love - apparently. The only time we ain't to tail her is when she goes to Fortemps Manor. Too risky. She's under their protection, as it were, an' we can't be causin' a scene…"

Estelle stiffened, her eyes darting towards the entrance, where a group of knights had just entered.

"She's 'ere," Estelle hissed. "Just look like you're watchin' your beloved in the pit." 

Leonie chanced a look over by the doors. The Warrior of Light was rather shorter than expected, surrounded by all these soldiers. And a bit plain. In fact, she looked decidedly average. Well, thought Leonie, I suppose you can't have everything. 

There was also no mistaking her condition, though it may have been because Leonie knew what she was looking for. There was a curve to the armour, a loosening of the leather straps of the haubergeon, the way in which she was instinctively wrapping her hands under her chest, curving around herself, a finger tapping against the metal.

"Aye, 'e was right," breathed Estelle. "Right up the duff." 

"Is it that important?"

"Must be," said Estelle. "Or 'e wouldn't have sent us. Seven 'ells, why don't anyone just ask each other in this bloody place?" 

Probably because the matter would cause an incident, thought Leonie, remembering the nobles of Gridania. Her eyes wandered over to the opposite side of the barracks, when something shifted in the shadows. Something dark and gleaming.

"Estelle -"

"You two, over here!"

Leonie jumped. The Warrior of Light herself was charging over, dragging over a young, bloodied man.

"Take Private Harper to the chirurgeon, quickly. When he wakes up, make sure to tell him it's not a huge deal, I've done it loads of times before…"

They'd had no choice. After depositing Private Harper with the chirugeons, a group of guards had already congregated around the Proving Grounds entrance, meaning that they couldn't risk sneaking back in. Estelle held out an arm, locking Leonie in place.

"Watch it."

Leonie stared as a female figure came up from the stone steps, waved goodbye to whoever was behind her, and a shout replied - the Warrior of Light's. The figure's ears pointed towards the sky, though there was something slightly off about -

"Hilda Ware," muttered Estelle. "Calls herself the Mongrel of Ishgard - three guesses why. Bloody good 'un she is, but definitely not who we want to be seein' right now. Stay close." 

They watched as Hilda produced something from her pocket and held it over one of the braziers. Then, she turned and headed towards the Skysteel Manufactory, one of the few places that Leonie was familiar with.

"Wonder what she was doin' with the Warrior? Ah, I can't 'elp meself…"

Estelle dashed forward and pawed the ground around the brazier. Whatever Hilda had held up, it had been thoroughly eviscerated. Except -

"Look 'ere. See the edge? That's official documentation, that is."

Leonie looked hard. The scrap of parchment was barely an ilm and a half long, badly singed, and now damp from the snow. 

"It says - _vitation_ . Invitation? _Present yourself_ \- _the hour_ \- then it cuts off. Is it like a summons?" 

"Most likely. Now I'm well curious. What's say we change quarry for a bit? Won't be able to get back into the Provin' Grounds, anyway." 

They followed Hilda at a distance, coming to a collection of crates at the back of the Manufactory, stacked by an open window. 

"Go first, ye haven't a chance in the seven hells o' liftin' me…"

Leonie scrambled up towards the open window, and peered in. It gave both her and Estelle a clear view of the inside of the Manufactory. Over the sounds of tinkering and machinery they heard Hilda's voice - and another - drift up. 

"...not a chance, Stephanivien, not a chance. Aught amiss at all? I've not seen you look this pale in a while."

"'Tis merely the lack of sunshine in my life, which has been well remedied now that I've laid eyes upon you. Tell me, do you have any plans this evening?"

"Yes. And your lovely words won't result in me buying any more. I have a particularly full schedule today and entertaining bored scoundrels isn't part of it." 

"You wound me most deeply, Lady Ware. Nevertheless, I shall find the strength within to rise above it. How much can I offer you?"

They proceeded to barter over some firearms. The whirr of machinery increased; Leonie strained her ear as far into the room as she dared.

"...meeting him soon. Can you believe it?" 

"Sounds rather ominous,” she heard Stephanivien say. “Doubtless it will be absolutely riveting. Will you require a replacement round?"

Hilda shook her head, picked up the parcel on the table, and bid him farewell.

"Oh, that's very interestin.' Looks like we'll be 'avin a chat with dear Stephanivien 'imself. Or, ye'll be."

Leonie looked at Estelle in alarm. 

"Go on," hissed Estelle. "'E's got a soft spot for ye, right?" 

Leonie stumbled into the Manufactory, the scent of gunpowder clinging to her nostrils. Soft spot was probably an overstatement, seeing as she and the man she'd later found out was called Stephanivien had both been rather drunk that one occasion at a tavern. It had been her very first night in Ishgard, and everything had happened rather quickly. Still, it had guaranteed her a place to stay for the night. And a funny story for Estelle. 

"Ah, afternoon," he pushed his goggles onto his forehead, grinning. "Miss Leonie, wasn't it? Have you finally seen the light, and are here to pick up a musket?"

"Not today, I'm afraid," said Leonie, smiling despite herself. "I was - I was looking for Hilda Ware. I was told I’d most likely find her here…?"

"Ah, my dear, you've just missed her. She has a particularly full schedule this evening, as I understand it.”

“Bugger,” muttered Leonie, wondering if pouting would endear her a little more. “Did she say where she was off to?” 

It must have worked, because a smirk formed at Stephanivien’s lips, and he beckoned her forward with the air of one cradling a tantalising secret. 

***

"The Congregation," whispered Leonie, once she was back outside. "She's meeting with the Lord Speaker in an hour." 

Estelle sucked in her breath.

"Bollocks. Serious business, then. Right. How'd ye feel about sneakin' past them guards again?" 

They hurried back to the gentleman's property, changed into slightly smarter clothes, and, brandishing their laundry, presented themselves once again at the Congregation. They needn't have worried, however; Hilda herself was planted squarely in front of both guards, her hands on her hips, her face in a scowl. 

"I notice you're letting them in!"

Leonie felt a wave of panic overtake her as she passed through the doorway, her hands clamped around the basket.

"Well - my lady, they're merely some maids -” 

Hilda scoffed. “So you’re letting just anyone wander in today, are you?” 

Leonie almost tripped over her petticoats in her haste to get in; Estelle, her back ramrod straight, led them left through a door. It was a spare room; boxes and old weapons, chairs and baskets littered the floor. 

“Wait ‘ere,” she breathed. “Watch through that crack with me, see where Hilda ends up, if they let ‘er in…” 

A very tall Hyur in gleaming silver armour swept past, Hilda behind her. For a moment Hilda's gaze lingered on the door in front of Leonie, whose heart was hammering painfully against her ribs. The Hyur led Hilda through a large door to the right and, by the sound of it, they climbed some stairs. A few minutes later, the tall Hyur emerged, collected a stack of parchment from the front table, and departed through the main door.

“This is our chance,” hissed Estelle.

The guard outside the large door was the young Elezen from before, looking very glad to be out of the cold. Estelle sauntered over to him. 

"We meet again, don't we, my love? How'd you fancy 'elping a pretty maid carry her laundry? 

"I'm, er, sure there are others who could assist you much more readily than I…”

“Nah, ‘e’s too old at the front desk, and that long-legged second in command’s wandered off. And besides,” she winked, “I know who’s strong arms I’d rather ‘ave ‘elping.” 

This seemed to work. Blushing furiously, the knight took the baskets and, upon reaching the landing, bowed and nearly sprinted back down. 

“Shame, ‘e’s only a kid. Easiest to twist around ye finger, though. Right,” Estelle beckoned Leonie forward. “We’re well in. See ‘ere? No guards. Whatever they’re discussin,' it’s definitely somethin’ big.” 

She padded down the corridor and knelt at a door, again bearing the Ishgardian crest. Leonie knelt beside her. 

There were definitely two people in the room - and one of them was definitely Hilda. Though she’d never heard the Lord Speaker, well, speak, she assumed that the other voice must be his. They were discussing...Ishgardians. How boring. But also the subject of Halflings, now that was much more interesting…

“Lord Speaker, there are two maids outside, trying to listen in.”

Quicker than anything, Leonie and Estelle jumped from the wood, racing to the end of the corridor and turning the corner. Estelle wiped her brow.

"Right - change o' plan. Out the window we go. Grab ye cloak, we'll be in the Brume tonight. Got a bad feelin' about this, but if my suspicion's correct, our Hilda'll lead us right where we need to be…" 

And she was right, in effect. 

Leonie entered the Forgotten Knight after Hilda, with Estelle hurrying back to the property to pen her report after handing her a dagger "for protection." It was fairly busy, and Leonie was just trying to decide the most inconspicuous table to do her investigative watching, when a gloved hand squeezed her shoulder and Hilda herself was suddenly very close. 

“Not seen you round these parts, before, friend. How goes things?” 

“Er,” heat rose through Leonie’s chest. “All good, I think.” 

“You _are_ new,” said Hilda sadly. “Otherwise you’d have checked your purse threefold. Nobody gets that close in Ishgard without wanting to swipe something. Come and have a drink.” 

They sat down, with Hilda explaining at length about herself, the Watch that she looked after, and who and what to avoid, who not to look at wrong, and who short-changed their clients.

"You'd do well with us, I reckon. Better than whatever you've got going on now." 

"I'll - I'll think about it," said Leonie, sipping her drink. 

"You'd be best to. There's no dearth of Highborn scrambling around for outsiders to do their dirty work. Not a good place to be, despite the pay."

Leonie took another sip, panic building within her. There was something a little too knowing about Hilda's smile. 

There was a sudden chill, and Leonie smelled something not unlike gunpowder; in a flurry of snow, Stephanivien was striding through the door, holding a large package which he handed over to the proprietor. Turning around, his eyes fell on their table, and he waved. 

“Am I being stalked?” called Hilda sarcastically, raising her ale. 

“Not at all, not at all, my dear. I take it you managed to meet your quarry, Miss Leonie?” 

“Oh, er, yes,” said Leonie, willing him to shut up. Hilda gestured to a seat. “Busy day?” 

“The busiest,” he said, sitting down. “I was working so attentively it was dusk before I realised I’d skipped lunch _and_ dinner.”

“Me too,” said Leonie, “I’m absolutely starving.” 

Quick as a flash, Stephanivien was back up, and bowing. “Allow me. It is a scandal that three such hardworking souls should be famished on this most pleasant of evenings.”

Hilda snorted. “Save it, would you?” 

Leonie, instead, laughed, realising too late that her gaze had lingered a little too long on the back of his head. 

“Have you two met?” 

“No,” said Leonie quickly, avoiding Hilda's eyes. “I mean, well, in a fashion.” 

The talks broke down after that; Stephanivien returned with a whole roast pheasant at the table, which Leonie attacked greedily. Hilda rolled her eyes, though even she was wise enough not to pass on a free meal. It was rather nice sitting here, thought Leonie, who was beginning to feel warm and sleepy, and at peace with the world. There was a bard playing something half-tuned in the corner, and she was suddenly up and dancing, and laughing, the cold forgotten. Through the haze she remembered Hilda offering to escort her back to her house, but she'd desisted, a small part of her reluctant to bring Hilda back to the property lest she find out the gentleman's true identity, whom he’d been very particular not to reveal. Perhaps Hilda _could_ help though, perhaps she'd be willing to share the wealth of information she was privy to, moving between Foundation and the Pillars as she did - 

This thought was cut short as a warm hand grazed her cheek, and scheming and politics fell from her mind. 

*** 

Leonie woke with a start, wincing at the pain at her temples. She felt slow, sluggish, the familiar feeling of too much wine and too much food enveloping her as she decided that an early start was simply impossible, and turned over, trying to coax herself back into sleep. 

Her nose hit someone's shoulder, and she froze. 

Ye Gods - _why_ did this keep happening? Stephanivien's form rose softly beside her - clearly still fast asleep. The windows were thick with condensation, but even through them the pinkish dawn was shining through. As quietly as she could, Leonie pulled herself out of the bed and scrambled around for her clothes, her head thumping, her stomach churning. She cast around for something - anything - to drink, and her eyes fell on several cups by the fireplace. Mercifully, it was not wine, just freezing cold tea from the night before. So he'd at least offered her some tea. That was... something. 

It was unbearably stuffy; Leonie tiptoed to the window and prised it open ever so slightly, welcoming the sliver of chilly wind against her neck. So this was the Pillars. From the tiny gap in the window she could see frosted streets, handsome wrought iron staircases, immaculately trimmed topiaries, the distant, fogged peaks of the Coerthan mountains - and a figure standing under a small stone pavilion. Leonie was several stories up, so she could not make out the face immediately, yet there was something familiar about the armour gleaming under its cloak, the lilt of the walk as it paced circles. Then it hit her - it was the Elezen she and Estelle had spied in the corridor the first time they'd snuck into the Congregation, and whom they'd eavesdropped on the day before. What had Estelle called him - Lord Speaker? 

A small shadow appeared in the dawn light. Craning her neck, Leonie saw a shorter figure approach the steps of the pavilion, in a cloak and hood. Now, this was interesting. 

As the second figure approached him, the Elezen bowed formally, then - to Leonie's surprise - raised a hand to brush the second's cheek. The second figure raised her own, capturing his hand and placing a kiss on his knuckles. They appeared to be talking, but it was too far away for Leonie to hear. This was obviously some sort of liaison. Gods, how exciting. 

This pavilion _was_ a good hiding spot, thought Leonie, surrounded as it was by topiary. The only way to look out - her window - was obscured by the roof of the pavilion if one were standing directly under it - but from her angle she could see both figures fairly clearly, only the very tops of their heads obscured by the overhang. 

The smaller laughed, reaching up for a kiss. The hood fell down for a moment, revealing a shock of red hair, and Leonie suppressed a gasp. The Warrior of Light. By the Twelve. If the window had been fully open, Leonie would have surely fallen out of it, pressed up against the crack as she was. Estelle would be _kicking_ herself, thought Leonie gleefully, which would more than make up for her fury at Leonie bunking off. 

She watched them for a while, though they did nothing else of note apart from the sickeningly sweet things one does when they think they're alone with their beloved. Leonie felt a twinge of guilt; how annoying it must be to sneak around. Mind you… she glanced over at Stephanivien's sleeping body, that was precisely what she was doing now. Perhaps she’d be able to sneak out of...wherever this was, without drawing too much attention. It certainly didn’t look routinely occupied. 

There was a pile of cakes on the table from the night before - slightly stale, but still perfectly edible. Leonie wrapped them in some spare cloth, though when glancing up at the bed, she grudgingly took one out and laid it back on the table. Stephanivien's shirt was draped over one of the chairs, and she couldn't help noticing something poking out of the front pocket - an elaborate lace handkerchief. Obviously some sort of forget-me-not from a lover, probably some well-to-do Highborn that had no idea that their sweetheart had drunkenly dragged a Lowborn into his bed. Twice. 

Back in Foundation, Estelle was waiting outside the usual property, her arms folded. As Leonie approached, her leather shoes slipping through the sleet, she wrinkled her nose. 

"Ye smell like the worst kind o' tavern. What time ye call this?"

"Leave it," said Leonie, offering her one of the cakes, and handing her back her dagger. "And - sit down. You'll never guess what I've just seen."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, replaying Heavensward really did a number on me. Oh well. I hope you enjoy this!

“The House recognises Count Charlemend de Durendaire,” called Aymeric, as Count Durendaire stood up, producing a roll of parchment and an eyeglass.

Aymeric sat back in his chair, thinking longingly of the wintery sunlight that shone in glittering shafts over the hall. The upper floor of the Vault was freezing, despite the number of bodies crammed in. Both sides of the room, one occupied by the House of Lords, the other by the House of Commons, were both nearly full. Count Durendaire's long and deeply boring proposal regarding the upkeep of the city braziers passed without fuss, mostly because many in the room were glancing at chronometers or tapping their shoes impatiently against the marbled floor. He himself stifled a yawn; he had risen before dawn to meet with Milda, to share with her his proposal for this week's assembly. He wished he could share her optimism about it. Even the very thought of it turned his nerves to ice. 

Aymeric stood, clearing his throat. He felt uncharacteristically nervous, yet… he exhaled slowly. It needed to be done.

"Many thanks, Count Durendaire, for that most important of proposals. I am pleased to see it pass without issue; works will endeavour to begin early next week.

Finally, we make our way to the last proposal, one that I myself have particular interest in. Whilst we may differ in looks and kin, we are above all Ishgardians, overseen by the Fury Herself. The past four years have not been easy, yet we have managed to rebuild ourselves better and more prosperous than what we once were. For that we must be commended.” 

There was a general murmur of assertion across the hall. 

“As Ishgardians, we are therefore not strangers to hard work, personal sacrifice and the betterment of our peers. No more clearly can this be seen in our efforts to rebuild the Brume and the creation of the Firmament as a shelter to permanently house our displaced. It is a monument to our future as a modern city, a testament to our ability to work alongside outsiders, alongside our Eorzean allies, and most importantly alongside each other.

Nonetheless, I hope I am not alone in thinking that this sense of self-betterment can only be improved upon, in true Ishgardian fashion. In recent weeks I have been witness to some rather illuminating and distressing stories regarding certain Ishgardians; behaviour that I naively assumed had been on the decline. Nowhere more plainly can this be seen in the treatment of Halflings, whose low number does not correlate to the amount of ill feeling held towards them -”

Several voices rang out, half of them incredulous, the other mocking. Aymeric waited for them to subside, his jaw set. 

“- as we can see, certain among us are hostile to the idea. It is no surprise. However, it is my belief that, as we have cemented ourselves as an integral part of the Eorzean Alliance, that it is within our best interests to ensure that each and every Ishgardian is allowed to flourish within these city walls without harassment. It will invigorate Ishgard, allowing us to display a united front against our enemies, as was always intended by the Fury. Therefore, I propose the creation of a committee that will monitor relations between Halflings and the rest - _I shan’t continue until I am allowed to speak.”_

The raised voices that had swelled up died down. Aymeric swept his eyes over the hall before continuing. 

“I propose the creation of a committee that will monitor relations between Halflings and the rest of the population over the next few weeks. Further to their reports, we will then decide the best course of action to take to ensure that no Halfling finds themselves at the mercy of events beyond their control. I propose the committee be made out of equal parts members of the House of Lords, both Temporal and Spiritual, and the House of Commons, who will then proceed to liaise with noted Halflings, their families and surrounding communities." 

There was a stunned silence. One particularly grim-faced peer stood up, bristling. 

“The House recognises Viscount Alois de Plamondon,” said Aymeric, resigning himself to a fight. 

“Lord Speaker, though your efforts are undoubtedly noble, I cannot help but be concerned that they are a little _naïve_. Though we are beholden to the Fury and Her wishes to grow and prosper, we are, above all, a free nation. It would not do for the political classes to interfere in an individual's right to decide who is, or is not, invited to their dinner table." 

_As if this doesn't already occur,_ thought Aymeric furiously. As if the Highborn didn't spend every waking moment mentally sorting their peers into those requiring obedience and those demanding deference.

“With respect, Viscount Plamondon, I have no intention to police the private actions of Ishgardians," said Aymeric. "I defer wholeheartedly to the Church for matters of personal morality. Needless to say, there is no passage within the _Enchiridion_ that states we must reject Halflings, or place barriers in their way. I might also add that there should be nothing within our secular laws that denotes otherwise.” 

There was a rumble of discontent, and another figure stood up. To Aymeric's great relief, it was a slightly friendlier face.

"The House recognises Count Artoirel de Fortemps." 

"Thank you, Lord Speaker. House Fortemps recognises the importance of a unified Ishgard. Therefore, we offer our full and unequivocal support in this endeavour and look forward to providing any and all support should this be requested of us." 

Despite Fortemps' status as a High House, there were still a few jeers, and a few dramatic shaking of heads and motions towards the sky. Artoirel ignored them, his gaze fixed unblinkingly ahead. 

Another peer stood up. 

"The House recognises Viscount Treaunandiere de Vesnaint."

“Most commendable, Lord Speaker - however I must disagree. There are numerous laws that prevent the passage of land and titles to Halflings - and, might I add, with good reason. It allows for the smooth transition of land and monies from Lord to heir, or even pauper to son, without worry for what a stray bastard might wreak upon the family -” 

“This assumes,” said Aymeric, an edge to his voice. “That the mother and father in question are not wed, or are exercising their reach beyond marital bounds. I do not see a reason why, if both parents are wed under the Fury, that the Halfling child should not inherit. Take for example the adoption of a child into a House - if an adopted child of no blood relation can inherit both land and titles, then I cannot see why a Halfling, being of full blood relation, cannot be granted the same.” 

The collection of bishops of the Lords Spiritual, once the Synod, turned their heads in unison. One of them, an elderly, bearded figure, stood up.

"We recognise The Most Reverend Paulendaint Derenhoix."

"Thank you, Lord Speaker. It is a difficult matter. You are correct in that there is nothing within the _Enchiridion_ itself that disallows Halfbreeds or the bringing together of Elezen and Hyur under Halone, but in practice such ceremonies are usually struck from the records, or not recorded at all. 'Tis a matter of personal responsibility, you see, as see how Shiva -"

Another bishop stood up, not even waiting for Aymeric to announce him. "Forgive me, Most Reverend, but I thought we were in agreement that this particular story is a stain on our history? There are many and more stories that throw light upon the correct course of behaviour that do not involve the ill-fated attempt at misrepresenting histories past."

"The tale of Shiva itself may be misrepresented," continued Reverend Derenhoix doggedly, "however the _meaning_ behind it is clear, and it is from that which we draw our understanding: 'tis best not to consort outside certain parameters, lest it cause undue disruption to the natural order of things."

Aymeric's cheeks grew hot; he realised he was gripping the arm of his chair so tightly his fingertips were beginning to numb. _Certain parameters_. If the bastards produced by this room - bishops included - were put in a line, it would stretch from here to Dragonhead. And yet, said a cloying voice in his mind, was he really any better? 

"...what of the Seventy-two Articles?" Thundered another bishop, also standing up. " _Of the Fury's love will all men receive, and by the balance of Her spear will all be set free_. We have a duty to ensure all Ishgardians are treated with respect and dignity, Lowborn _or_ Halfling."

"I note that, as you well know, Halone's love also extends to brigands and sellswords, to liars, cheaters and thieves," said Derenhoix sharply. "Should Ishgard produce more of them, to its detriment, because of the Fury's infinite love?" 

Aymeric had heard enough. As a wave of other bishops stood up in protest, he brandished the stone gavel to his right and brought it crashing down upon the desk. 

" _Enough._ Whilst this is most illuminating, this is not the time nor place. It will also change nothing. The committee will go ahead as planned -"

"It will not survive the vote," called Viscount Plamondon from the left. 

"Then it is prudent that there will be no need for a vote," replied Aymeric, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. "The Lord Speaker retains the right to arrange committees in his own time, and that I shall do. All that is required are volunteers from both the House of Lords and House of Commons to facilitate it. And if there are no volunteers, I am perfectly happy to allow outsiders to Ishgard to carry out the task on your behalf and report their findings directly to me."

There was another spate of muttering; allowing outsiders into the heart of Ishgardian politics was almost an insult. Indeed, some members were clearly battling over whether they found this, or the creation of a committee itself, more insulting. 

"I was not aware that the Lord Speaker reserved the right to employ the Houses in his _personal_ projects," barked another lord, not even bothering to rise. "House Velendieraint shall not be participating." 

"Your swift response is most gracious, Baron Velendieraint, however I did not anticipate any offers of assistance, or otherwise, so soon," said Aymeric, praying that the venom coursing through him was not present in his voice. "I shall send letters to all those concerned personally; a reply will be required by the week's end. Participation should not be especially difficult nor time-consuming; however, it will require a degree of empathy, something that I hope is in higher supply than what I am witnessing today.

This brings an end to today's session, I believe. May you all walk in Halone's grace." 

_Some of you more than others_ , he finished silently, watching the mutinous glares from the pall. In the wash of bodies streaming towards the doors, he caught Artoirel's eye. Though he returned Aymeric's nod, his smile did not quite reach his eyes - they were narrowed, calculated and, Aymeric realised, his heart sinking - accusatory.

***

Milda was pacing circles in her quarters in House Fortemps, as her meeting downstairs drew nearer. The half-penned report to the Maelstrom sat innocently under a far more interesting letter she had been penning to Ywain, and _that_ sat under a barely-touched reply to the Scions. They had uncovered some very interesting ruins south of Mor Dhona, and were keen for her to share her opinions. The problem was - she had none. It was becoming more and more difficult to focus on Scion matters, and she had a creeping suspicion that they had also arrived at the same conclusion. They had begun declining offers to meet face-to-face, started using phrases like " _when you are more at ease_ " and " _pray do not overexert yourself_." This, more than anything, frightened her. She had always resented becoming a caged bird, wheeled out whenever something dutiful needed doing, then put back. That was no life. Now, she wasn't even that. Warrior of Light in name and nothing more.

Even thinking this caused a shudder. The first person to articulate this, when they had been preparing to breach the depths of the Vault, had been the man whose broken shield stood proudly above the mantelpiece.

He'd asked her if, yet again, she felt any trepidation storming an enemy stronghold against the odds to rescue a friend. Of course not, she'd replied flippantly, sharpening her lance and burying the panic that threatened to eclipse her. Haurchefant, of course, had seen through this. 

"Take heed," he'd said softly, settling next to her in the snow. "For all your talents, my dear, remember that you are more than just the Warrior of Light."

"I never -" she had stopped, aware of his presence, suddenly very close. What the next part of the sentence would have been she hadn't known. Instead, something came tumbling out that she hadn't heard herself say in moons. " _Gods_ , I'm scared."

There had been silence for a few agonising moments. And then he had kissed her. And she had kissed him back, if for only a second - a glorious second, a second which she could return to in her mind as though it were hours fresh - before moving away, her face hot, her stomach clenched. 

"Haurchefant, I -" she wasn't able to look at him, though her fingers had lingered at his elbows, as did his at her own, burning hot through her sleeves. "We - not now. We can't - I can't," she swallowed. "When this is over. When we've - we've saved him -"

She had been terrified of his response. But he had smiled, some of his usual bravado flashing across his face. He'd brought her closer, into a hug, which she had returned, burrowing her face into his chest as tears had pricked her eyes. They had stayed like this for a while, as something gentle and unspoken passed between them. Haurchefant had drawn back, his fingers brushing away some of the frost at her temples, and placed a kiss on her forehead. "There," he had said. "Nothing less chaste that that shall pass between us, lest you have full permission to spear me with that lance."

She'd smiled weakly, feeling his hand at her chin. 

"Worry not, my dear. We will free our friend, that I promise you. Our moment has given me even more reason to succeed, if I needed any. And once we have claimed him," his thumb stroked the scar just below her lip, "I shall kiss you in front of the whole of Ishgard." 

Had she loved him? She was not sure. It had been different - relief, perhaps, and gratitude, that someone _\- someone_ \- had aided them, taken them under their wing, _believed_ that she and the Scions were innocent without question. Her mind had been too strained, too broken, to really comprehend what was happening, as her heart began to stutter whenever he had entered a room, as her glances at his face slowly turned to gazes. And before she could even begin to process it all, he had been snatched from her grasp. 

Now, something shameful had burrowed its way into her chest like a worm, nestled beneath her heart like a shard of ice, something she kept returning to on the nights when she could not sleep, when she stopped moving, planning, deciding for just a moment, whenever she felt herself drifting too close to Aymeric when they were not behind closed doors. If he had lived, if things had been different -

Milda squeezed her eyes closed, as she opened the door to the parlour. Boiling guilt lapped at her stomach. It had been his death that had brought her and Aymeric closer, clinging to each other as they had stumbled through the fog of grief. She had been angry - so angry - an anger that had filled every pore in her body so completely that burning down Ishgard, the Vault, the Cathedral, pooling its way into the Brume and through the Sea of Clouds, seemed not only wonderful but _righteous_. It had eclipsed her rage at the Waking Sands massacre, the sorrow at Papalymo's sacrifice, even the paralysing horror when Moenbryda had fallen at her feet. She had never wanted to kill, or be killed herself, so badly. 

So now, when she sat here, in Lord Edmont's private parlour, watching the weak sunlight play against his face - older, yet still reminiscent of Haurchefant's in the crinkle of his eye and the fall of his jaw - an emotion not unlike that which had took her on that freezing promenade all those years ago flooded her chest. 

Lord Edmont had been ecstatic when she had told him she was with child, in that dignified way of his. His very first question was if she needed another 'feminine presence' around the manor, and declared he would feign ignorance to all until she was comfortable announcing the news herself. To her great relief, he did not ask who the father was. Perhaps he thought she didn't know (which amused Milda greatly) or, more likely, it was one of those Ishgardian customs that involved sweeping it under the rug to save everyone the embarrassment. 

Speaking of embarrassment, she was finding it difficult to meet Lord Edmont's eye. Something about the formality of the summons, the lay of the tea set, the absence of servants, spoke that this was not simply a cosy afternoon chat. 

"I trust all is well, Romilda? Come, sit down." 

Milda took her place in one of the plush violet chairs, willing her hand to stay steady as she added milk to her cup. 

"As well as it could be, Lord Edmont. I hope the same can be said for yourself?" 

"Indeed, it can be. I must also thank you for humouring me. I imagined we could sit and discuss a few things away from prying eyes. Although," he added, smiling slightly, "I imagine that you've done quite enough pontificating on your own." 

"More than enough," said Milda. "I feel a little too big for my own skin, if you know what I mean. I just… I suppose I need to be _doing_ something, yet I've spent the past few weeks in my own head."

"I see. I imagine it all feels a little more real now, does it not?" 

"Yes," said Milda, relieved that this had been put into words. "Though, I know things might be - be coming to a head," her heart raced, thinking of what Aymeric planned to announce to the assembly. "If you don't mind me saying so, I'm guessing that's why I've been summoned here?" 

Lord Edmont nodded. "Very astute of you. I do not wish to cause you undue worry, though I think far too much of you to keep you in the dark overlong. The long and short of it, my dear, is that in the coming weeks it will become rather more difficult to conceal your condition. I have of course revealed nothing, though you must understand that my peers are increasingly likely to doubt my claims the longer time goes on. And they may employ other methods to obtain their information rather than offering me wine before midday, in the hopes I will misspeak and reveal all." 

"I'm sorry," said Milda, feeling a wave of shame. "Truly, I am, Lord Edmont. You shouldn't have to lie for me." 

Lord Edmont shook his head, his eyes crinkled in a smile. "My dear Romilda, I probably lie to my peers a dozen times before breakfast. It is - unfortunately - an occupational hazard of the Pillars. Would that I have left it all behind once Artoirel took my title, but alas, 'tis not the case. You see, I believe that the lords and ladies would immediately suspect foul play if I were to demur much longer. I am keen for them to _not_ suspect that, as imagination starved of knowledge is a treacherous thing, and rumours would begin to fill the gaps in all sorts of nefarious ways."

"I'm so sorry," said Milda again, "I just wanted to carry on as normal, hoping that everyone would be too - well - polite to mention it."

"It seems our queer ways have made their mark on you," replied Lord Edmont, again with a slight smile. "However, know this - there is nobody in Ishgard that would dare see you come to harm, nor would they darken their mouths with insults in your presence. After all you have done for us - even the most dogmatic of our Highborn wouldn't have an ill word to say."

There was a silence, as Milda sipped her tea, her mind racing. "Thank you, Lord Edmont. That means a great deal to me. I should be able to announce it properly, in time. But…" she felt a flutter at her chest, "it's not really for my sake that I'm being this secretive."

Lord Edmont nodded, placing his cup down and pressing his fingertips together in thought. 

"Please do let me know if I am being too forward, Romilda. However, do remember that it comes wholly from a place of concern. Is the father involved?"

Milda felt a thrill of fear. "Yes, he is." 

"Excellent. You see, I simply couldn't abide it if some scoundrel had developed cold feet and then slunk away. I take it then, without prying too much, that he has much to lose should his identity come to light?" 

Milda nodded. 

"He's not - betrothed to another? _"_

"Oh no," said Milda, "no, it's nothing like that." 

"Ah, I see." Lord Edmont gazed out of the window at the softly-falling snow. "So - and do correct me if I am wrong - it is simply a tale as old as our city walls; a matter of star-crossed lovers battling against the twin behemoths of duty and tradition?"

In the pale light, as he stared out at the snow, he looked older than Milda had ever remembered him. 

"Yes," said Milda eventually, "something like that."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very big thank you to everyone that has read this, or left comments and kudos! I never thought this story would end up being so long...

"Know what these are?"

Hilda slammed the bag down on the table. A few pieces of its contents rolled out; what looked like large, opaque marbles. The Elezen opposite her raised an eyebrow and leaned back in her chair. 

"Not a clue."

"Well, I think that's a damn lie," Hilda said, narrowing her eyes. "You and your friend aren't half as good at sneaking around as you think."

The Elezen wrinkled her nose. "Firstly, she ain't my _friend_. An' secondly, that particular job's over. I've been makin' an honest livin' since then, thank ye very much."

"What, in a week? Don't make me laugh. You think this is honest, do you, carrying these about?"

"What I transport," growled the Elezen. "Ain't any concern to ye. I didn't even know what was in the package." 

"It was addressed _to_ _me_. And I've no use for them, haven't put an order in for them, and don't know anyone that has. These are Linkpearls - _highly_ illegal when they're not sold through the correct chain -" 

"That ain't any o' my concern," said the Elezen. "I was told to take these to you, and failin' that, to one o' the Temple Knights."

Hilda bit back a laugh. "Not been here long, have you? They wouldn't believe you. You'd be in a gaol cell quicker than a heartbeat. Then they'd ask what _I_ was doing, ordering hundreds of illegal Linkpearls." She paused, rubbing the back of her neck. "I mean, if I'm honest, it looks like you've been set up."

The Elezen looked mortally offended. 

"I'm serious," said Hilda. "Who asked you to deliver it?"

"I'm sayin' nothin,'" she replied flatly. "Thief's code an' all."

"While that's all well and good, the Temple Knights won't be nearly as nice as me. And I'll have to tell them. This kind of thing's too big to ignore."

The Elezen hissed under her breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothin.' Just wasn't aware I was talkin' with a snitch, that's all. Ye runnin' off to tell your betters, now ye've got your smalls in a twist?"

"They aren't my betters," said Hilda through clenched teeth. "We work together, in case you weren't aware. There are places they can't go, that I can."

"Aye, just because they can't be bothered dealin' with the rabble. Look, 'ow about I strike a deal with ye. Let's not tell the Knights 'bout this little hiccup, I'll make sure them Link-things get destroyed, and nobody'll 'ave to know."

"I don't think you're in any position to be making deals," said Hilda. "I could hand you over no problem and be done with it, but you're obviously new here, and struggling. So I suppose, against my better judgement, I'm inclined to at least hear your side of the story."

"Why?" Asked the Elezen. "So you can dob me in at the first chance? Why'd someone go to the trouble o' sendin' you all these, anyway?" 

"That's what I'm trying to figure out, if you'd stop being so obstructive. We're on the same side here, in case you haven't noticed." 

The Elezen stared at Hilda for a long moment. 

"Fine. Short bloke, probably a Hyur, kept his 'elmet on - but it wasn't any 'elmet I've ever seen 'round Ishgard. Gave me a bag 'o coins, but I've spent 'em -"

There was a sudden hammering at the door, and a man burst in, skidding sleet onto the floor, one hand pulling at the collar of his tunic. 

"Symme? What is it?"

"Hilda - outside - Knights are saying there's been some sort of - of poisoning -" 

" _Poisoning_?"

"Aye. Someone's sent down a - a food parcel to a group of kids, but it's had something - something done to it -"

Hilda went numb; she saw the Elezen flick her eyes curiously between her, Symme and the doorway.

"I'm locking you in - don't you dare move - I'll be back -"

Before she could argue, Hilda had slammed the door shut and locked it. Estelle kicked the table leg in frustration, as several of the Linkpearls rolled onto the ground and shattered.

***

Aymeric looked despondently at the small pile of unopened letters next to his inkpot. It was significantly dwarfed by the pile of opened letters, whose remnants were scattered across the desk. Someone had actually sealed one reply with horn glue instead of wax, to perhaps hammer home the point. Others had politely declined, using well-rehearsed axioms such as " _regrettably irreconcilable_ ," " _morally incompatible"_ and the classically Ishgardian " _m_ _ay the Fury guide you to the correct outcome."_ A few letters had genuinely touched him; many members of the Commons had reached out in support, citing Halflings they knew personally, or could be put in contact with. A small number of Lords had also done the same, though many expressed the desire for him to rethink the legal ramifications. Though this annoyed Aymeric greatly, it was at least a start. A very small, lacklustre start, but a start nonetheless. 

It had been about a week since he had sent the requests out in a flurry, and still there were Houses that had not yet replied. Most ominously, House Fortemps had maintained a pointed silence despite Artoirel's announcement at the assembly. In fact, he had the growing suspicion that House Fortemps was deliberately avoiding him. He had already sent a knight to their manor with a request for a reply, only for the knight to be told curtly that the Count was not taking requests at present, from the Lord Speaker or otherwise. 

He could have always asked Milda to ask Artoirel, however they _were_ adults, and it didn't feel fair to ask her to do his bidding. He also didn't want to cause her undue worry. She had been growing increasingly restless as of late, though when asked maintained that everything was fine. Judging by the growing bags beneath her eyes, it almost certainly was not.

Aymeric was interrupted from his thoughts by a loud knock. It was Lucia, entering with a bow.

“Good evening, Ser. Pardon the sudden interruption, but there’s a member of the High Houses waiting outside. He is particularly adamant for a private audience.” 

“Why? Is it Ar - Count Fortemps?” 

“No, Ser,” Lucia shook her head. “Allow me to show him in.” 

To his immense surprise, it was Count Baurendouin de Haillenarte, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. 

“Lord Haillenarte,” said Aymeric, standing up. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

His initial annoyance at being interrupted slipped away, as Count Haillenarte bowed, and motioned at Lucia to close the door behind her. He looked terrified. 

“Is anything amiss? Come, have a drink.” 

Aymeric poured out two small drams of whisky - from the look on the Count’s face, mere tea wouldn’t cut it. 

“Thank you, Lord Speaker,” Count Haillenarte took a deep sip. “Full glad am I that I have the chance to speak with you personally. I shall not spare you false niceties and will get straight to the point - whilst I appreciate the concern behind it, I cannot be seen to be publicly supporting your committee. It is...incredibly delicate, and I regret that I cannot go into further detail here. Needless to say, I thought it best to say this to your face, rather than deigning to send a distant letter. Know this - ‘tis not because I do not support your endeavour. I believe the time is ripe for Ishgard to welcome all within its walls. I...well, House Haillenarte simply cannot back this particular endeavour.” 

Aymeric smiled, despite the clench of his jaw. “Thank you, Count Haillenarte, for coming to see me personally. It means a great deal, regardless of the answer, as this is a cause close to my own heart, and it pleases me to see it treated with appropriate respect.” He inclined his head. “I would, however, be lying if I said that I would not miss the support of one of the High Houses. I have no qualms revealing to you that House Dzemael sent a most polite letter back, calling into question my integrity, my right as Speaker, and my apparently defective moral compass.”

Count Haillenarte blinked. “And you have no issue revealing this to me?” 

“None at all. The general gist of their correspondence said that they would take great measures to make their feelings known should I go ahead with it. Naturally, I took that to mean they had already started.” 

“I see, I see…” Count Haillenarte fiddled with the cuffs of his coat. “What of House Fortemps? Young Count Fortemps was very clear they would offer you their unmitigated support. Surely their endorsement carries some weight?”

“It does, and I am immensely grateful for their assistance," lied Aymeric. Though it was not technically a lie, he decided - Artoirel _had_ publicly backed the committee at the assembly. "Despite this, House Fortemps has developed a - not unfounded - reputation of supporting the downtrodden. It would be unusual if they did _not_ support it. As their support was expected, it has sadly not made the waves I anticipated amongst the nobles.”

“Is - is that so?”

“Indeed. It would mean a great deal to me if we could also count on aid from House Haillenarte, though I appreciate it is a very sensitive issue. Though, in my experience - and most annoyingly - the most important issues tend to be.” 

Count Haillenarte did not reply, instead staring into his cup. 

“You also expressed that the time was ripe for Ishgard to shed some of her grievances, so I must ask - why the hesitation to be seen to publicly support the creation of this committee?” 

The Count shook his head. “As you know, Lord Speaker, House Haillenarte has been through much hardship, which has wounded both our pride and our standing. We have had to maneuver ourselves most carefully, first vying for favour with the Holy See and now with the remaining Lords…”

“House Haillenarte has prospered well these past few years,” said Aymeric gently. “Francel and Aurvael’s determination to transform the Firmament has been astounding. Through that, we have been able to make official links with our feather-kin friends in the Sea of Clouds - a first in Ishgardian history. Laniaiette aids that effort, having worked in the Clouds for a number of years and being intimately familiar with its peoples. Stephanivien gave us arms against the Horde that meant even the poorest, sickest man could defend himself, and now ensures that the Lowborn among us are well-protected and safe. Your House is well-tied to helping the disenfranchised. It would not be, so to speak, particularly revelatory should you wish to assist in the formation of a committee to aid the plight of Halflings.” 

Count Haillenarte squeezed his eyes shut, his hand gripping the edge of the desk. Aymeric, sensing that nothing of note would occur whilst a desk stood between them, ushered the Count and his half-drunk cup to the armchair by the fire. 

“Speak freely, my lord. What troubles you?” 

Count Haillenarte was silent, his jaw grinding, the air of a man on a sudden brink about him. Aymeric was reminded painfully of himself, stumbling from meeting to briefing to assembly like a tightly wound cog. He only hoped his own façade was more convincing, as he watched the Count take another sip of his whisky. Aymeric allowed the moments to stretch on; firelight dancing against the Count’s tired face. 

“Imagine...imagine for a second, that someone dear to you had certain... intentions,” murmured Count Haillenarte finally. “With someone wholly unsuitable. And you, in your... _foolishness_ and pride, forbade it. And -” he stopped, and drained the rest of his cup. “Fury forgive me...I will regret this come the morrow.” 

Aymeric stayed silent, knowing better than to interrupt something that appeared to have been months in the making. 

“...he has always been so headstrong, so _stubborn,_ " continued the Count feverishly. "And I...I asked him to do just this one thing, for his father. For his bloodline. For the House. You see, I had found a wonderful daughter of House Jaimberd for him. A decent wife she would have been. Strong, dependable - good stock. As firstborn, he…” he brought a gloved hand to his forehead. “You must know, more than any other, the expectations placed upon firstborns… the _scrutiny_ … not just upon him, but on the - partner. The House. If he’d only been second-born, if only…” 

Aymeric stared at the top of Count Haillenarte’s head; equal measures of pity and disgust coursing through him. 

“If he saw our House publicly supporting the policy, I…” he shook his head. “I could not face him. Nay, I could not face myself. He wasn't happy with my choice. He wanted - he wanted to marry someone else. Someone wholly unsuitable, a girl in - in his workplace.

I sent her away… she was not just a colleague of his, she was indebted to our House. Her father was utterly furious with the both of them. I could not look him in the eye… he still serves us, though I had to move him to a different property. She was - she was a good, capable girl, for a Lowborn Hyur -” he stopped. “ _Why_? Why was he not content to have her as a mistress? It would have been perfect - she would have been a good balm for him when the time came for him to marry into House Jaimberd....” 

Aymeric refilled the Count’s cup. “So he wanted to marry his servant - this imaginary eldest son?”

“Yes,” said Count Haillenarte, not meeting his eyes. “He - apparently - wanted to make an honest woman of her. And she, as far as I know, implored him to go through with his original marriage, cut off all available contact, sent back his gifts and - and married another. I know not where she is now. Yet she - she still haunts him. He is not the same. Either sleeping in his - workplace - or roaming the streets doing Fury knows what…” 

“And, in this scenario, both the Highborn and Lowborn fathers objected?”

“Of course…’tis a matter of pride, is it not? A firstborn of a High House marrying his Hyuran servant - unheard of. He’d have to remove himself from the House, from his life’s work… not to mention the shame of - of a daughter caught with her master…” 

Aymeric suddenly felt very cold.

“She - the servant girl - she knew what it would _really_ mean, that he'd have to give everything up. She knew, well, she couldn’t _not_ know, how much his work meant to him - she helped him achieve it. How could she watch it be thrown away all for her? She’s not a bad girl… if only he’d have kept her as a mistress…”

He took another sip, his hand loosening his cravat. Aymeric - for what seemed like the hundredth time today - arranged his mask into one resembling sympathy as best he could. It was common knowledge that the eldest son of House Haillenarte had rejected his duty as a knight in favour of tinkering in his workshop, though this tinkering had led to great advancements in their battles against the Dravanians, and later against the Garleans. It was also common knowledge that he preferred to fraternise with Lowborns. Aymeric strained his memory, trying to remember his perfunctory visit to the Manufactory about two years ago. It had been mostly men, yet there was one girl - a Hyur in plaits - who had served them tea and Stephanivien had waxed lyrical about her prowess with firearms. She had blushed, and he had brought a familiar hand to her waist, playfully chiding her for denying her skills in front of the Lord Speaker. Aymeric had thought nothing of it at the time - a mere gesture brought on by extended exposure to the camaraderie of the workshop. 

"So - in essence - if a hypothetical Count was seen to be publicly endorsing a measure designed to support Halflings, the hypocrisy from his actions in denying his son’s request for marriage to a Hyur would be too great for him to bear?”

Count Haillenarte nodded, his head in his hands. 

"My lord, allow me to be plain - there is nothing within our laws saying that they could not marry."

Count Haillenarte shook his head. "Any children - if they were able to produce them - would receive nothing, no title, no inheritance. He'd be endangering them to a life of poverty and hostility -" 

"Then aid me, allow us to take the first steps to dismantle this petty legislature," Aymeric leaned forward imploringly. "By doing so, we would ensure situations like this will never need to occur - wounded House pride, perhaps, but certainly no legal ramifications. Let it be the same as any noble's son who decides to marry a Lowborn Elezen - it does happen, more often than we like to admit."

The Count didn't reply immediately. As though bracing himself, he winced, and said, "'Tis not… _right_ though, is it?" 

Aymeric had expected this - it was usually the last thing said when all other arguments had been meted out. He smiled, determined to keep his voice steady. "We are not so different from Hyur, my lord. We are all Ishgardians, are we not, bound together by a shared purpose under the Fury? There are some scholars that say all spoken races share a common ancestor. I understand your concern about a firstborn being unable to produce an heir - however, it is perhaps easier than one thinks for such pairings to produce children." 

“Perhaps...perhaps it is time for me to place the expectations of House Haillenarte elsewhere,” muttered the Count, as though Aymeric had not spoken. “Laniaiette is getting to that age… though she is wholly devoted to her work, marriage is certainly looming soon…”

“She will make a wonderful wife,” said Aymeric, hating himself. He knew Laniaiette; she was happiest leading her men at the outpost, especially now that relations with the Vanu Vanu had warmed, and would rather be nowhere else, not least an accessory on the arm of some noble. 

A long moment stretched on, before Count Haillenarte placed his empty cup on the table, and rose. 

“I...I must be going now. I have another engagement soon. I shall not impinge upon your hospitality any longer.” 

“Certainly, Count Haillenarte,” said Aymeric with a bow. "Know that the offer is ever open should you change your mind - or should you choose to assist us in other ways."

“Indeed. Thank you, Lord Speaker. I shall not look back upon this meeting with fondness… you should not have seen the head of House Haillenarte this way.” 

“Not at all, my lord. We’ve merely had a chat about the latest tourney over a few drinks.” He raised his cup. “Nothing untoward.” 

Count Haillenarte bowed low, opened the door and left. Aymeric listened to his footsteps descend the stairs, the billowing silence around him broken only by the crackle of the fire. 

He stared down into his untouched drink, feeling a strange mix of vindication and revulsion, before grimacing and downing it whole.


	7. Chapter 7

“Has my lord been entertaining? How dare you partake in that excellent whisky, when you know I can’t have any.” 

Aymeric felt himself wince. Even though it was playful, following his earlier conversation hearing the words _my lord_ from her lips sent a chill through his stomach. Milda had let herself into Borel Manor, and Aymeric had found her at the kitchen table, trying to coax François, the cat, into eating scraps of chicken from her plate. As always, François’ watery eyes remained narrow and suspicious, and he pointedly raised a paw to his graying muzzle. Despite this, he had stalked them around the house like a little grey shadow and had sat, unblinking, on the bedroom dresser, despite repeated attempts to remove him (including Milda aiming a sock in his direction). The trick appeared to be to ignore him; when it became clear their attentions lay somewhere quite different, he had slunk off in a huff. 

“Forgive me. It was sorely needed," Aymeric shifted his weight on the bed slightly, allowing Milda to shuffle closer. The fireplace burned low, still dipping the room in warmth despite the blizzard raging outside. It was almost too cosy; Aymeric was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

"I found myself providing counsel to a very troubled lord. Knight, Commander, Speaker, and now High House confidant. Not quite where I imagined myself." 

"I bet you have people telling you all sorts," said Milda, stifling a yawn. "You must just have one of those faces."

There was a silence that Aymeric was reluctant to break, as nice as the warmth and the peace was.

"Milda," he said tentatively, "is everything truly all right?" 

She sighed. "Is this where you tell me I'm looking haggard?" 

"No," said Aymeric with a slight smile, "I believe this is where you tell me you're completely fine despite all evidence to the contrary."

Milda looked at him appraisingly, before sitting up, her brow clouding. 

"I was just _thinking -"_

"Oh _no_."

She grinned, nudging his side. "I'm serious. I was thinking about…well, when it finally happens. And we have an actual, real baby, and it's all out for the world to see. What then?" 

"Well, I'm sure House Fortemps will be more than happy to make sure the Warrior of Light's child is well cared for." 

"But," said Milda, her face falling, "that would mean I wouldn't see very much of you, would I?"

It took him a moment to realise what she was getting at.

"Milda - I would not - _leave_. Of course I will be there. I just assumed, as Fortemps manor was more familiar to you, that you'd prefer -"

"Gods no, I didn't think _that,"_ she insisted, her face reddening. "It'll just be hard, won't it? What about your work?"

"I promise you, I will make an excuse for a few weeks, at least." 

Milda stared. "Aymeric, you work six days out of seven, and the seventh one's usually spent catching up. You almost ran out of the manor last week when you realised the Temple Knights had a meeting about the scaffolding, of all things, without you. And you'd take a holiday - just like that?"

"Do you not believe me?" 

"No, I do, it's just…that's incredibly suspicious, isn't it? The Warrior of Light gives birth and the Lord Speaker takes a few weeks off. That's almost an admission, surely?" 

Aymeric blinked; perhaps this was not the best time to have this sort of conversation, clouded as he was by exhaustion and the glow of the fire. 

"If I have to, I will spend the days with you and the nights at the Congregation. I'll make some excuse."

"That's not good for you, either," frowned Milda. "Ishgard won't burn down without you, you know. You shouldn't have to carry all of this on your own. It's not fair on you."

"Says the actual _Warrior of Light_. You've shouldered more than I could scarcely imagine."

"Yes, well, that sort of just happened, didn't it?" Smiled Milda. "Though I'm no use to anyone at the moment. All I am saying is, it's not healthy to work as much as you do. When was the last time you had the opportunity to rest - properly?" 

"Is that not what we're doing now?"

"It's well past sundown," said Milda, " _most_ sane people are resting at this point." 

He looked down at her. Her face was caught halfway between reproval and concern.

"Once - once I have a clear path for a successor, I plan to return to leading the Temple Knights," said Aymeric. "I was much more comfortable as Lord Commander than... whatever this is."

“Lord Speakers have a term of four years,” Milda said slowly. “So you've not got long left. And - if you don’t nominate yourself again, you can leave it behind. Or simply be a - oh what're they called - a special advisor, if you can’t bear to see Ishgard managed by someone else. Pull the strings from behind."

Aymeric rubbed his brow, trying to stave off the sudden tension building behind it. "I…I cannot help fearing that Ishgard will fall backwards. There is no-one else whom I would trust to not bend to the whims of whichever House provides the most monetary support."

"What about Lucia?"

"Perhaps. Though she is not Ishgardian, which may present some difficulties."

"Gods," said Milda, "why does it matter?"

"It doesn't. Not to anyone with sense. Lucia would make a fine Speaker. I've never explicitly broached the subject with her, but she knows what it would entail, and how some would make it their life's work to make her tenure as difficult as possible."

Milda shook her head, shivering despite the fire. Aymeric pulled one of the blankets over her shoulders, and she seemed to deflate, leaning over to rest her head against his chest. 

"I'm just so tired of it all." 

Aymeric tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I know." 

"Would it," she stopped, as though regretting her words already, "would it really matter if - if people knew?" 

It shouldn't. As, he realised, when they were together, now, in a small room, when they were merely two people out of the thousands that roamed the city, it did not matter. It shouldn't matter. And yet it did. 

"I wish that it didn't," he said quietly. 

"Sod the lords," she whispered, a note of the familiar steel that was usually present only on the battlefield. "And the bloody assembly. I don't care for them. I care for you and - and _this_. Nothing more."

"No love for the Scions, or House Fortemps?"

She glared at him. "You know what I mean."

"Allow me see where this initial committee goes. Please. We must be patient - let them come around to the idea themselves. Rushing through will only cause them to reject it even more strongly."

"It feels like they'll never change," said Milda. "Why are we tiptoeing around like this, when things are supposed to be _different?"_

"Because," said Aymeric, his voice constricted, "this period following the War's end is the only chance in a thousand years of Ishgard fully shedding its past baggage, for adapting properly to the modern Era. If anything were to disrupt it -" 

Milda drew back slightly, her face hardening. "I suppose this is an inconvenience, then?"

"I didn't say that," said Aymeric gently. "My anger lies entirely with Ishgard's system, its traditions, not you."

Milda sank down into the pillows again. There was another stretch of silence before she said, in a very small voice, "Are you - honestly - happy that this happened?" 

Aymeric looked down at her tousled head. If he could imagine for a moment, that if he was not himself, and she was not hounded and pulled left, right and centre; if they were alone, a house, a space, without the weight and expectations of thousands licking at their heels, if he could go a week without lying to Lucia about where he was going, without having to smile and simper and moderate people who thought themselves far too important, without having to endure torturous stretches away from one another broken only by a letter or flustered Linkpearl call - 

"Of course I am," he said. "It could have - perhaps - come at a slightly more manageable time." He smiled. "Though, that would make things a little too easy than we've come to anticipate."

He watched her fingers curl around his thumb, as he placed his hand gently on her stomach. Her fingers were rough from the Coerthan wind, as were his own, yet they were still possessed of an ephemeral tenderness and pliability that at once calmed him and made his heart shake in his chest. That she had even contemplated - despite her denial - that he would not be there for her every waking moment in the days following the birth was almost more than he could bear.

Before long, there would be even smaller fingers, tiny and brittle and in need of protection, and not shunted from House to House as he and Milda met under awnings and behind pillars like courting adolescents. 

That wasn't - couldn't be - fair. 

"More than anything," he said, hoping his voice was steady, because an unfamiliar knot was forming in his throat, "I wish I could kiss you in front of every petty lord and lady in Ishgard. And one day, I promise you that I will."

He wondered if he had said the wrong thing; for a moment Milda looked dumbstruck, as though not quite understanding what she was hearing. Then she softened slightly, entwining her fingers in his and pressing her palm to the top of his hand. There was a lot she wanted to say, but couldn't, and he understood. 

Despite herself - perhaps it was the changing aether within her, as the chirurgeon had mentioned - Milda felt her eyes burn, and before she was really aware, she was crying silently, from happiness or relief, she could not tell, the tears pooling at her neck and onto the pillow. 

***

Muscadain de Citenrond, currently mired in a late-running meeting, was presented yet again with a handsomely enveloped letter by his assistant. His assistant's eyes lingered very slightly on his own, creased in concern, before he bowed and exited his office. 

Muscadain turned it over. There was no seal; the blob of wax stamped only by a circle, and his own address had been printed on the envelope rather than written out. How irritating.

He threw it into the fire with the rest of them.

It was the seventh of such he had received this week, all of them appearing to say exactly the same thing, though he had stopped opening them after the fourth. They started with a note of congratulations on returning as head of House Citenrond and administrator of their vast estates, and his continued efforts to uphold both his House's values and his commitment to a prosperous Ishgard.

A standard affair, when it was a request for aid, or charity, or a daughter to wed. The last few paragraphs, however, swam before him as if the neatly printed letters had been burned into his mind.

_It would, sadly, be an enormous blow to the pride of House Citenrond should its relationship with Halfbreed revolutionaries be revealed. I rest easy knowing that it is an error of judgement on the part of a young, inexperienced Head of House, though it pains me to say that many of our peers will not be so kind in their estimations, and may take action appropriate to their denouncement._

_Despite recent attempts by the Lord Speaker who, for maddeningly obscure reasons, has decided to see fit to empower these threats to Ishgardian stability, I am full glad in my assumption that House Citenrond will not be providing support, and that any recent reaching out to the Lord Speaker was done purely out of courtesy and respect for his office._

_I have taken the liberty of discussing the above with your accountants, bookkeepers and magistrates, all of whom would be deeply dismayed should House Citenrond continue to support these measures, and may have to reconsider their relationship with the House should your support of the Lord Speaker's plan remain._

_House Citenrond's full and unequivocal condemnation of the formation of this committee would be warmly welcomed._

"Another one? You should've let me read it," said Hilda sourly, watching it curl in the flames. "I'd have sent a cracking reply back." 

"It would only upset you," said Muscadain, not looking at his half-sister. "Though it's nothing you've not heard before, I'm sure. Where were we?"

"Poisoning. Group of kids yesterday morning were given some bread and fruit, turns out it'd had something foul done to it. They'll all be fine, thank the Fury, but that's mostly because they had the sense to spit it out when it didn't taste right. If they'd have been any hungrier…" 

"Horrible. And you managed to catch the perpetrator?"

Hilda narrowed her eyes. "How much did the Temple Knights tell you?"

"Quite enough, I believe," said Muscadain, "for me to think that all's not as it seems." 

"That's two of us, then. Didn't take long enough for us to find out where it was from; _Genevieve's_. You know, that bakery?" 

He did; it was a small, well-known bakery in Saint Reinette's Forum. Genevieve Poitonnetoix was well-liked and well-loved by much of the Brume, for it had been her bakery that had first ventured out to assist the starving following the final Dravanian assault on Ishgard's walls. Her husband, Hrodbert, was also a member of the Commons, meaning they enjoyed a fairly unique position wedged between the worlds of Foundation and the Pillars above.

"She was beside herself," said Hilda quietly. "Couldn't understand how it had happened - she'd not sold that particular bread and fruit bundle for the past few days, so someone must've snatched it, done something to it and handed it out. And then the Temple Knights came barging in and accused her of sending it herself."

Muscadain shook his head. "Idiots. Were they reprimanded?" 

"Oh yes," said Hilda, with relish. "But that's not the point. She's had to destroy all of her stock to make sure it hasn't happened elsewhere. Write to all of her suppliers and get _them_ to check. She's in bits; can't produce anything with what she's got. We still haven't worked out what was done to the bread. Chirurgeon's think it's some sort of conjury in the grain." 

"I see." 

Hilda tapped her fingers against her folded arms. "You don't think it's all linked, then?" 

"It's difficult to say." 

"Seriously?" 

"Well, yes," Muscadain raised his eyebrows. "I fail to see where these incidents, as awful as they are, intersect."

"I can," said Hilda, "they all involve Halflings, to an extent. Someone tells a green-eared arrival to hand over a highly illegal parcel to me, the perfect thing I'd need if I was planning some sort of coup, or if she can't find me, to hand it to a Temple Knight. Well, the Brume's full of them, so it's only by the Fury's grace that she found me first. Genevieve's husband's a Hyur _and_ in the Commons, so he's bound to have received a bribe or two begging him not to assist this committee. For obvious reasons he's declined the bribers, so I'm guessing this is some sort of retaliation. Doesn't matter if the bakery's acquitted, they can't bake anything, can't make any money and it's going to put people right off going there. And now you're getting strange letters begging you not to assist, because I'm suddenly a dangerous terrorist. Again. I bet you anything you're not the only one receiving them."

Muscadain frowned, crossing out something in his notes with unusual force. She _was_ right, yet...

Hoping to change the subject, he sat up straighter in his chair. "Tell me, Hilda - what is your honest appraisal of the Lord Speaker's plans?"

"Gods, if I had a coin for every time someone's asked me that this past week. I suppose it's a start. Could have come a lot sooner, but I shan't complain. I know you have to tread carefully with the assembly, but...I'd have just changed the law there and then, but perhaps that's why I'm not Lord Speaker..."

"Well, they do have to vote, you know."

"Yes, I know. I suppose it just feels like a lot of posturing for little gain. I _know_ it's so the more stuffy peers can be softened up to the idea gradually…well, it's riled all the right people up - as we can see - and that's usually a good sign. I just hope everyone hasn't decided to go and nominate that nice dark-haired Halfling with the carbine." She shook her head, sighing. "I've already got half of the Commons asking for me. You'd think I was the only one. They'll be sick of me before long." 

"I imagine that some of the other Halflings want a quiet life, and that they fear that getting involved only increases their spotlight." 

"That's true. I bet some of the nobles are absolutely bricking it. Imagine thinking your bastard Halfling is safely tucked away for years only for this to drag it all up in front of the Lord Speaker. Incredible." 

Muscadain smiled; it was an enormous pity that Hilda had not been his full sister. The fact that she was unable to fully commit that keen mind of hers to the antics of their peers, and therefore for the benefit of House Citenrond, was lamentable. 

"Right, then," he said, scribbling a final line. "As requested, I promise I will put a word in to the Temple Knights. I shan't let them know it came from you, but I will ask them to keep a closer watch for any suspicious figures. With us both requesting this - separately, from different angles - they should be much more inclined to take it seriously. I have a meeting with Lucia tomorrow, so I'll be sure to mention it then."

"Oh, what's _that_ about?"

Muscadain gave a small shrug. "I have no idea. She was the one who arranged it." 

Placing his quill down, he looked at her steadily. 

"You _will_ be careful, won't you? 

"'Course I will," said Hilda, a slight steeling of her voice. "I have to be, doing what I do."

"I don't doubt you can look after yourself," he said. "I've seen you in action. Merely, I've never seen some of the nobles quite like this. It's almost akin to the days the Archbishop was dethroned. As you've mentioned, you - being so prominent - could be considered a sort of touchstone for their anger…"

Hilda mulled over her half-brother's look of concern as she passed through the deserted stone of the Architects. Her own concern lay primarily with the denizens of the Brume who, it appeared, were yet again bearing the brunt of disgruntled Highborn as they vied for supremacy amongst one another. How easy, she thought angrily, it must be to commandeer the masses in your own private machinations when the arrival of your next meal came as assuredly as the rising of the sun.

Although, this certainly was a (very small) start. The Lord Speaker was at least attempting to reach out to Halflings first, and was perhaps realising, upon gauging the reaction, that many lords were not half as magnanimous as they pretended.

Clearly, Ser Aymeric was deeply worried about the Warrior of Light's child, which further confirmed to Hilda that it was indeed a Halfling (her initial meeting with him had all but verified it). Yet, something was still nagging at the back of her mind. The thing that had set most nobles aghast - the legal reforms - would be of no real benefit to the Warrior of Light at all. She had no access or claim to any of House Fortemps' wealth beyond being housed, fed and watered by them, and therefore had no reason to seek such a demand for her unborn child.

This settled it then, decided Hilda. The father, as suspected, was Ishgardian, Elezen, _and_ had claim to a House - hence the scramble to ensure legal recognition. And if the Warrior of Light was still in Ishgard, she was certainly still seeing him. So it was not, she mused, a situation similar to the one that had resulted in Hilda's own birth. That certainly narrowed it down. She crossed the street, thinking hard. If it _was_ one of the Fortemps brothers, then the inheritance issue hardly mattered, because, as the Warrior of Light was a ward of the House, the child could simply be discreetly adopted into the family without raising all but the most curmudgeonly of eyebrows. For the Lord Speaker himself to insist so forcefully on this, well… 

It was either a Highborn very important to both the Warrior of Light _and_ the Lord Speaker, or - 

Hilda stopped in her tracks, her hand gripping the rail, conscious of her trail of thought disintegrating if she interrogated it too forcefully. By the Fury, she was dense. The Warrior of Light's face when she, Hilda, had playfully tested the waters by suggesting her 'darling' might be in Ishgard (and the rather cheeky comment about buns and syrup), the Lord Speaker's look of well-concealed trepidation during their meeting and the sorrow that had crossed his face when she had suggested that the Warrior of Light would be terrified, this sudden push for reform, the fact that there had always been _whispers_ , but she herself had never taken them seriously -

Of course. She could have kicked herself. It was all so bloody obvious.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am experimenting with slightly shorter chapters that focus on one 'scene' rather than dealing with two different scenes over a longer word count. Will this work? Who knows. Hope you enjoy, either way :)

The dining room of House Plamondon was large, extravagant, and, if told through the more acerbic lips of the Ladies who frequented it, hopelessly gaudy. It was a testament to the glut of wealth that House Plamondon had accrued over the last decade, and, as an extremely important guest was arriving for breakfast, no expense had been spared. Pheasant, cold hams, eggs and kippers lined the table, and a maid - impeccable in her starched, hand-sewn uniform with the Plamondon crest adorning her hat, pinafore and cuffs - laid a tray of pastries delicately at Edmont de Fortemps' elbow. It was the sort of event that he had come to despise (his mornings were better spent, in his opinion, writing or easing into a warm bath), but a sense of duty and the fact that he had already declined numerous meetings with the insufferable Viscount meant that he had little choice. Any lingering good will, however, was fast dissipating, as he found himself being poured a large glass of brandy before the last remains of breakfast had been cleared away. 

"A little early for this, wouldn't you say?"

"Nonsense, my friend," said Viscount Plamondon, who had decided he was Lord Edmont's friend sometime after the first course. His small eyes were creased in the self-serving smile of one who considered himself to have finally ascended to the summit of polite society. "A vintage from La Noscea, matured in barrels rolled by those odd-speaking little folk. One cannot hide one's best stock when there is celebration afoot."

As if on cue, the maid brought out a large wicker basket, adorned with blankets, flowers, fruits and bars of soap.

"Ah," said Edmont, placing his glass down. "This is about the Warrior of Light." 

Plamondon gave an exaggerated gasp, as though keen to infer that both his nameday and Starlight had arrived early. 

"So it is true, my lord?"

"It would be foolish to hide it, I suppose," said Edmont. "It was her wish to keep things fairly quiet for the early days, though she has been out and about more often without the protection of cloaks or armour."

"Indeed, my lord. In fact," Plamondon waved a large hand in the direction of the maid, "the commonfolk were already discussing it for weeks. Terrible business, girl, wouldn't you say?"

The maid blushed furiously and nodded, her head bowed as she removed the last of the plates.

"Terrible business, Viscount?"

"Oh, yes," sighed Plamondon. "The follies of youth. Of duty, and sacrifice, and all those things that seem terribly boring when one is still wet behind the ears. The Warrior of Light can be excused - adventuring folk are all cut of a similar cloth - though I think other parties should know _better_ , don't you?"

Edmont was accurately aware of how closely Plamondon was watching him, but not so much that he did not catch the figure of the maid stiffen as she removed the final tray from the table.

"Indeed, they should, Viscount. In fact, look at us both, old men sat discussing a poor woman's private matters over pastries. Best not make a habit of it, lest we become no better than the smallfolk trading gossip on the job."

Plamondon threw up his hands towards the ceiling. "A thousand pardons. Allow me to sate my curiosity a final time, and enquire about how House Fortemps feels about the recent exciting announcement?"

"I see the mind of an Inquisitor is still difficult to shake away despite our changing city," replied Edmont mildly. "I can say that House Fortemps reacted most positively - it is a boon for us, as it is for Ishgard, that the Warrior of Light chooses to reside here during her time of need."

"Forgive me, perhaps I was unclear." Plamondon took a small sip of brandy and sat back in his chair, his spectacles glinting. "By _announcement_ I was referring to the new scheme put forward by the Lord Speaker, though 'tis by luck or divine providence that they both appear at much the same time - "

"Then, Viscount, you would fare better in asking my son. As Count, he has authority to comment on such positions."

"Come now, my lord," Plamondon's voice grew even more unctuous. "You must be privy to all sorts, surely? As you say, you house the Saviour of Ishgard, whom I'm sure must have bent the Lord Speaker's ear towards all sorts of fascinating ideas for the future of this city -"

"Again, Viscount," said Edmont. "I am afraid it is for Artoirel to comment on such matters. If he has discussed this with Romilda, I am not privy to it."

"Oh, but she must talk to you, surely? 'Tis well known that the Warrior of Light sees Lord Edmont as a father of sorts."

This flattery may have worked many years ago (or on Emmanellain now, thought Edmont wryly), but Edmont had experienced far too much of it to view Plamondon's simpering gaze as anything other than a fisherman's winking lure before the hook. He opted for ignoring his undrunk brandy and pouring himself a cup of tea instead. A polite - though by no means unclear - rejection of Plamondon's terms for the meeting.

"Romilda keeps her own counsel - sometimes better than us lords, I might say. Rest assured that, if she encountered any difficulties, House Fortemps would of course provide the Saviour of Ishgard with appropriate support."

Plamondon took a sip of brandy. "That is all well and good, though I am afraid it does little to assuage my fears. It pains me to tell you, my lord, that there have been certain unsavoury rumours as of late. Rumours that I would hate to see corroborated, as I fear they would reflect rather badly on House Fortemps, whom, as you know, commands my utmost respect."

Edmont concentrated on nonchalantly placing a cube of sugar into his tea, ignoring Plamondon's expectant gaze. 

"Rumours, you say?"

"My friend," said Plamondon, with a look of maddening superiority, "you don't _know?"_

"Regrettably, I am more suited to keeping quiet about what I do know, and not trying to ingratiate my way to information that I do not," said Edmont, "it is an irritating habit, yet I'm sure you can agree that it has served me well over the years."

Plamondon shook his head, his eyes growing shrewd. "With respect, you are being much too gallant, my lord. Lesser beings such as myself have no choice but to wander around in the swill, but it does allow me to hear things that perhaps would not reach more delicate ears. And the things I've heard! That our dear Saviour's lover is from within our own ranks, that he is firstborn of a House -"

"Viscount Plamondon," said Edmont, his voice hardening. "I am afraid that this topic is wholly inappropriate." 

"My friend, I am saying this only because I care deeply for Ishgard, and its Saviour."

Edmont had scarcely doubted anything more in his life, though kept his face as noncommittal as possible.

"I simply would not want to see her falling in with the wrong sort," sighed Plamondon, clearly looking to cultivate an air of paternalistic concern. "It simply wouldn't do for the Saviour of Ishgard to be involved in a scandal…"

"A moment, Viscount," said Edmont, raising a hand. "Perhaps I have not made myself clear. Romilda is a ward of House Fortemps. Speak of her as you would one of my sons." _Carefully, or not at all_ was the unspoken implication. 

Plamondon did not look remotely embarrassed. 

"Certainly, my lord. Then, as a father, is it not prudent to ensure that one's familial reputation remains intact? To ensure that one's offspring understands the implications, young as they may be, of a slip of the tongue, or the consequences of their - ah - _actions_?"

Edmont placed his fork down, making it so clear that the conversation was over that even Plamondon, Fury curse him, would not dare to dispute. 

"Certainly, Viscount. I will, of course, take account of my obvious failings when it comes to my children. My eldest inherited the title younger than was perhaps necessary, but rose to it all the same, and risks his life on the front line in service not just to the House and Ishgard, but for the good of the realm itself. The second is an exemplary emissary that spreads word of our proud city to all four corners of Eorzea, whilst another gave his life protecting the very Saviour whom you claim incites such strong feelings of concern within your heart. Clearly, my offspring's guidance was lacking, difficult beasts as they were." He drained the last of his tea, before glancing out at the rare splash of sunlight streaming through the window. "Most regrettably, it appears the morning has made fools of us both, as I am very nearly late for my second appointment." 

"Of course, my lord," Plamondon rose, then bowed low, proprietary meaning that the previous few moments would remain unspoken and undissected, instead becoming yet another line in the mental ledger that Highborn kept on their peers. "I shall deliver the congratulatory hamper to House Fortemps presently."

"Oh, there shan't be any need for that, I'm afraid," said Edmont breezily, "Romilda is adamant that any and all gifts be distributed amongst the denizens of the Brume. I shall inform her of your generous contribution in due course." He smiled, giving his own bow. "May you walk in the Fury's grace, Viscount." 

After the doorman had escorted Lord Edmont out, and he heard the closing of the main doors, Plamondon fell back down in his chair, his fists clenched, his mind racing. He would desist, he decided, until the wind changed, until public opinion - and public pressure - became more malleable. Damn House Fortemps for being so proper, he thought furiously. Such proprietary may have worked years ago, but if _saintly_ Ser Aymeric was so determined to change Ishgard for the betterment (if his information was correct) of his own Halfbreed bastard, then Ishgard itself was soon to outgrow such petty notions of honour and House pride. Perhaps it would become like Ul'dah, where coin reigned paramount over lineage and prestige...but then that would put a large dent in his current objectives much more than these accursed reforms...

"Girl," he called preemptively, extracting a worn leather notebook from his breast pocket. Sighing irritably, he ripped out a few pages and threw them into the fire.

"Notify the butler to present himself in the parlour in the next bell," he said, once she appeared. "And make sure that Lord Vesnaint is made suitably comfortable upon his arrival."

"Of course," she said, turning to leave.

"By the way," Plamondon called, just as her hand brushed the doorway. "Don't think I didn't catch you looking as though you'd sunk into ice when I mentioned what you saw during your _excursion_. I'm surprised the Wood Wailers didn't come bursting in here right now, your teeth were chattering so. They're still after your whereabouts, correct?"

The maid turned to him, her face white. 

"I have rather a few contacts within them," he said, rubbing his spectacles with a handkerchief. "So you would do well not to look like such a frightened little whelp when I have guests over who may be integral to my business. For that," he continued lightly, "I think I'll let you do the honours this time."

"The honours?" She breathed, then remembered, "...my lord?"

"Of course. You were some sort of rogue, were you not? Though not a very good one, it seems. You and that Lominsan wench certainly didn't go unnoticed." He signed. "Though, her bark was certainly worse than her bite, having scarpered when things got a little personal. You see, I was of the opinion that you'd be more grateful, though it appears bad manners are universal to Lowborn the realm over. Perhaps you are not sufficiently accustomed to the way things work here in Ishgard."

He leaned back in his chair, his mouth curving into a smile. 

"I need you to be a little more involved, you see. Surely it shan't be too great a task for a miscreant so renowned she has the Gridanian forces biting at her heels? Deliver the goods directly to the Brume, as our dear friend requested," he said, pouring a second glass. "And do be careful you aren't caught."


End file.
